


in smoke and mirrored states

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Anal Sex, Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Conversations about Feelings, Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Frottage, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Happy Ending, Historical References, Holy Water, I'm not even sorry they deserve it, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Tension, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tender Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), World War II, like disgustingly happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: He was just doing his job, all part of the brief. What was most assuredlynotpart of the brief was rescuing your adversary from discorporation, and then getting your rocks off with him. Definitely not in the brief.A stolen moment in Paris in 1793, followed by centuries of mutual pining and further stolen moments.[Written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 197
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	in smoke and mirrored states

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm finally posting this! I've been writing this fic since last September, and it's been an amazingly fun process. This all started with a small seed of an idea, and it bloomed into something far-reaching, and I hope you all enjoy it. Thanks so much to @brainyraccoons for all the feedback along the way, and thanks to @jesswantsitall for beta reading this beast when it was finished. Of course, a massive thank you to @marleenam for creating some truly lovely art to go with my story.
> 
> You can see @marleenam's art right here in the fic, and also here on tumblr: https://bit.ly/31sBQ6C

**Paris, 1793**

Perhaps he really had been on Earth for too long. Perhaps he had become a bit trigger-happy with his miracles, and perhaps he was too weak in the face of human cravings. Aziraphale knew his failings, and he knew they were many. The fact remained that it had all begun with a simple desire for crepes -- real, authentic, wafer-thin crepes. He’d never imagined that a simple jaunt across the Channel would end with him clapped in irons, on the verge of being discorporated, with no way of escaping. 

It had been the appointment with his tailor, he was sure of it. That must have been the frivolous miracle that put Gabriel onto him. As though Gabriel didn’t enjoy coming down to London and popping in for a bespoke jacket. Aziraphale was positive that Gabriel also shifted things in his tailor’s appointment book to make sure he was seen to at his convenience. And if he was to blend in with the humans, Aziraphale had to keep up with their fashions. 

After he’d received the memo, which appeared in a blaze of fire -- not exactly interested in subtlety, Heaven -- Aziraphale had promised himself he’d be good. But it had been an exceptionally boring week, and he had no active assignments. He was powerless in the face of a strong craving for crepes. Now, after going to all the trouble of a journey across the water, with no miraculous shortcuts, Aziraphale had nothing to show for his efforts but a quite serious threat to his corporeal being. 

Perhaps saving himself from the deadly situation wouldn’t be considered frivolous. After all, he was on Earth on Heaven’s orders, and surely they would want him to remain there. Of course, there was another possible solution to this problem. It all depended on whether a certain someone could find him in time. If he could just hold out long enough…

“Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

He supposed he should have been ashamed at how that familiar voice excited him. Surely it was just the thrill of his impending rescue. It was difficult to convince himself of that, however, when he spun around and saw Crowley in his ridiculous outfit. Yes, positively ridiculous, and not at all the reason for the frisson of desire that ran up his spine. 

“I thought you were opening a bookshop,” said Crowley, frowning at him.

The bookshop -- sure to be another reason for a chastising letter from Heaven. If Gabriel didn’t like what Aziraphale had done at his tailor’s, he would not be best pleased by his adventures in real estate. That, however, was a concern for another day.

“I was,” he replied. “And then I got peckish.”

A familiar back and forth followed, with Crowley ribbing him for his passionate interest in food and for his ridiculous choice of clothing. It was nothing that Aziraphale hadn’t already said to himself, really, but it all sounded less harsh coming from Crowley. With a simple snap of his fingers, Crowley freed him from his chains. 

“I suppose I should thank you,” said Aziraphale, rubbing at his wrists.

“No, not that,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “Never do that. What do you think it would look like, an angel thanking a demon for a quick rescue?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Aziraphale. “Even so, I feel a bit beholden to you now. Shall we do lunch? My treat.”

Crowley smirked at him. “What were you thinking?” 

Aziraphale grinned back and wiggled his shoulders. “What would you say to crepes?”

The farther away from the jailhouse, the quieter the sound of the guillotine and the cheering crowd. Aziraphale felt more relaxed in his disguise, though he did hope that no one noticed he’d kept his shoes. They were beautiful shoes, and he preferred not to cede them to the smelly feet of an executioner. As they searched for a suitable restaurant, Aziraphale thought he could feel Crowley staring at him. He kept his own gaze resolutely on the shops they passed, but it was difficult not to look back, to engage. 

“I only rescued you because it helps me out, you know,” said Crowley, hands wedged into his pockets. “No point in having an Arrangement if there’s no one to have it with.”

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. “You never know, though. If I were to be discorporated, my replacement might be an even more willing participant.”

Crowley scoffed. “Not bloody likely. More like I’d get stuck with _Michael_ , the insufferable wanker, and have to do all my tempting on my own. And you’d best believe that _Michael_ would not be taking me out for crepes.”

“I am not _taking you out_ ,” said Aziraphale, offended by the implication. “Let’s say you’re tempting me with decadent French food.”

Crowley glanced over at him and smirked. “Whatever you need, angel.” 

Eventually they found the most darling cafe, exactly what Aziraphale had pictured when he’d first become fixated on the idea of crepes. Crepes were, indeed, on the menu -- though Aziraphale supposed he had no way of knowing whether they’d always been on the menu, or whether Crowley had decided to employ another demonic miracle. The crepes were divine, whatever their provenance, and Aziraphale quickly ate four with lemon and sugar while Crowley labored over one small serving with strawberries.

As Aziraphale reached for a fifth helping, adding chocolate sauce this time, he realized that Crowley was doing The Thing. Roughly three decades earlier, he’d noticed that Crowley seemed to enjoy watching him eat. It was unnerving at first, but now he found that he didn’t mind. Sometimes he made more of a performance out of eating than was necessary, just for the demon’s benefit. He did so now, purposefully leaving a bit of chocolate at the corner of his mouth and licking it away with a satisfied moan. 

“So you’ve been a bit of a bad angel,” said Crowley, staring at him, one long finger stroking at his chin. “At least according to the higher-ups. What’s annoying them most these days?”

Aziraphale just barely held back from rolling his eyes. “Frivolous miracles. And I suppose they’re right, I have been using my power for small, rather ridiculous things. Only humans have become so decadent recently, and I’m simply staying in tune with the temptations they face. Shouldn’t I be doing that, as an official liaison with the humans?”

“Mmm, yes,” said Crowley. He nodded solemnly, as though he believed this justification, but the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “You’ve got to sample the earthly delights, haven’t you? Crepes and tarts and fancy shoes -- don’t think I didn’t notice the fancy shoes, angel.”

Aziraphale squirmed and slid his feet beneath his chair. _Blast_ , he should have known that Crowley, of all people, would spot the one piece of his wardrobe with which he couldn’t bear to part.

“Tell me,” said Crowley, in a tone that told Aziraphale he wouldn’t like whatever he said next. “Have you indulged in the most human of all earthly delights?”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “You’d better not be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“I’m only saying.”

“You know as well as I that that sort of thing is right out.” 

“Sure, of course.”

“It happened once, and now we have the nephilim. If I’d been doing that, I would not be sitting here with you now, my dear.”

“Oh, no, I know,” said Crowley. “Still. It’s something they indulge in quite a bit. It’s probably their favorite thing to indulge in. If you’re filling up your bingo card of Human Temptations, this is one you can’t really miss.”

“Well.” Aziraphale picked up his fork and scraped up the last bits of chocolate sauce from his plate. He sucked the sauce slowly from the metal tines and decided how best to proceed. He knew where Crowley was heading, he knew exactly what he was doing. “As I say, strictly forbidden. Can’t go fraternizing with humans in that way.”

“Nah, I suppose it’d have to be with another angel,” said Crowley, sitting nearly sideways in his chair, one arm slung across the back. “Or a demon.”

There it was, there was the temptation he’d been expecting. Not that he’d been eagerly awaiting it, of course. He’d simply been anticipating it, the way all good soldiers anticipate the moves of their enemies. 

An unspoken conversation passed between them. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and Crowley raised his eyebrows in return. Aziraphale demurred, setting down his fork and patting the corners of his mouth with his serviette. Crowley ducked his head to catch Aziraphale’s eye, brows still raised as if asking a question. Aziraphale met his gaze with a flick of his eyes, then set down his serviette and arranged his cutlery in such a way that the waiter would know he was finished. He stood up, conscious of Crowley’s unwavering gaze, and walked back toward the kitchens.

Aziraphale found the cafe’s back door with no trouble, and soon he was standing in the alley wondering what he was doing. Where had that confidence come from? He should have shot down Crowley’s invitation straight away, and perhaps stormed out of the cafe. But he found that his stupid, useless corporeal form was betraying him. There was no mistaking what his human body wanted, what it had wanted since he’d laid eyes on Crowley in the jail cell. 

Before he could talk himself down, the back door swung open and Crowley stepped into the alleyway, looking absurdly alluring. How did he do it? How did he manage to saunter so easily?

Crowley walked toward him, and Aziraphale was sure that his eyes were twinkling behind those dark glasses. “Just a bit of research, right?”

“Research,” Aziraphale repeated. That was what he’d say if anyone upstairs asked about this. But how would they ever know? They seemed concerned about his ‘frivolous miracles,’ but they never asked him directly about Crowley. He often had to remind them that he had a wily adversary on Earth, mostly as a justification for them letting him stay to counteract Crowley’s demonic efforts. But they didn’t seem to care much.

“Though I suspect,” said Crowley, leaning in close, crowding Aziraphale against the brick wall of the cafe. “That you won’t include this in any reports for Gabriel.”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Crowley grinned widely and closed the gap between them, crushing his lips against Aziraphale’s. It was just as divine as the crepes, perhaps moreso, and Aziraphale instantly understood what all the fuss was about. Yes, of course, this was why wars were fought, why humans committed crimes of passion, why people were so desperate to connect. He gripped Crowley’s shoulders, trying to pull him closer, though they were as close as humanly possible. Well, almost. 

“Didn’t take much tempting, did it?” said Crowley as he pulled away, then leaned in to press hot kisses to Aziraphale’s jaw. 

“Well, you make a good point,” said Aziraphale, just barely holding back a moan as Crowley kissed at the spot below his ear. “I...I should...anything that helps me understand the humans.”

If he was being honest with himself -- and, good Lord, he’d better not make a habit of that -- Aziraphale had been thinking about this since the Globe Theatre. The whole idea of the Arrangement had been so alluring that Aziraphale was sure he should turn it down. Anything that sounded that good had to be a temptation, and surely it would be a feather in Crowley’s cap to tempt an angel. But he’d decided that it couldn’t hurt, not in the long run, not in the grand scope of the ineffable plan. Perhaps it was part of the plan. Who was he to question it? It was ineffable. 

But ever since then his mind had been straying -- his human mind, it was all down to this insufferable corporeal form. At night, as he was trying to read a book or choose a sermon to give (he’d spent many years as a vicar in different areas of Britain), thoughts would come to him unbidden. He would imagine scenarios in which he and Crowley would cross paths once again, and this time he would thank him properly for the whole Hamlet favor. Eventually the thoughts became too strong to ignore, and he wasn’t proud to admit it, but he’d pleasured himself on more than one occasion. 

And really, that was the source of these frivolous miracles that Heaven was so upset about. He’d been helping more and more crops flourish, couples come together, dying relatives pull through, floundering businesses succeed. They hadn’t seemed frivolous at the time. He was helping humans in need, and he just happened to also be offsetting the thoughts that came to him in the middle of the night. Perhaps that was what Gabriel was sensing -- the self-serving nature of those miracles. 

Perhaps now, if he made all of those wicked fantasies come true, they would no longer plague him. Honestly, it was a great package deal -- eliminate his pent-up frustration and learn more about humans all in one go. The fact that it felt this good was simply an added bonus. 

“Crowley,” he said, trying to get the demon’s attention as he tugged at the ruffles of his shirt, trying to find more skin. “Crowley, can we...that is, I’d rather…”

Aziraphale trailed off, not quite sure how to broach the subject. Things had been a bit different in his fantasies, and if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

Crowley pulled back, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. “You’ve given this some thought?”

“What? No, of course not,” said Aziraphale. His cheeks were going red, and that was yet another reason to despise his corporeal form. “It’s just...oh, fuck it.”

The look on Crowley’s face was priceless. Aziraphale wished there were a way to preserve it for all time. He took advantage of the demon’s stunned silence, spinning him around so that he was the one pressed against the brick wall. Crowley was still gaping at him, so Aziraphale kissed him roughly, forcing his tongue into his mouth. It was intoxicating to feel Crowley give in to him, to feel him become pliant and moan softly. Aziraphale slipped his hands beneath Crowley’s jacket and slid them up and down his thin torso. Crowley shivered as Aziraphale’s hands settled on his hips, fingers searching for the hem of his shirt. 

“What has _happened_ to you this century?” said Crowley, a bit shocked and a bit proud. 

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, breathing hard against Crowley’s neck. “Rich food, and grand music, and...and the humans finally seem to be enjoying themselves.”

“Mm, so you thought you’d join in,” said Crowley. “Well, I’m happy to be of use, angel.”

Aziraphale wished Crowley would stop talking, and paradoxically he wanted him to continue purring in his ear. He felt flustered, suddenly faced with the situation he’d been dreaming about for decades. Crowley seemed more than up for anything, so Aziraphale didn’t hold back. He kissed him with all the zeal he’d dedicated to devouring his crepes, and when he felt brave enough he pushed his hips against Crowley’s, pleased to find they were both clearly enjoying this. Crowley let out a strangled moan, and Aziraphale suddenly remembered they were in public. 

“Oh, good Lord,” he said, pulling back and glancing around the alleyway. “Won’t someone see us?”

Crowley shook his head, smirking. “Anyone who wants to look down this alley will suddenly think better of it. Demonic miracle, no need to thank me.” 

There was, though, so Aziraphale pulled him in for another kiss, licking along his bottom lip and letting his teeth follow. Crowley was making the most delicious noises; it was all exactly as Aziraphale had imagined it. He supposed that was what Crowley did best -- make people’s dirty, sinful fantasies come true. He could probably sense all of Aziraphale’s desire, that was probably why he propositioned him in the first place. 

All at once, things seemed to be moving in slow motion. Aziraphale pressed a hand to the side of Crowley’s face and they locked eyes, at least as much as they could with Crowley’s dark glasses firmly in place. Crowley looked stricken, mouth hanging open and chest heaving. Aziraphale wanted to see his eyes more clearly, but the lenses on Crowley’s glasses seemed to darken further when he tried. 

“Are you just gonna stop?” said Crowley, out of breath.

Aziraphale opened and shut his mouth several times before speaking. “I...I don’t--”

“It’s all me,” said Crowley, but this time he wasn’t smirking. “This is all my demonic influence. Your lot never need to know about this.”

A strange, sad thing bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. But before he could pay it closer attention, Crowley slid his hand along the back of his head and pulled him in for a searing kiss. His other hand snaked down to his rear, pushing him closer, fitting their hips together. Then Aziraphale chose to stop thinking and let his body take over.

As much as he cursed his corporeal form, it was very good at experiencing pleasure. He jerked his hips against Crowley’s, searching for friction to help relieve the tension coiled inside him. Crowley shifted subtly, helpfully, sliding one of his thin legs between Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale thrusted against his thigh and moaned. Crowley moved in to kiss at his throat, biting gently near his collarbone. They moved in tandem, using each other’s bodies. 

The tension in Aziraphale’s abdomen grew and grew until he recognized a familiar feeling from those nights when he touched himself. He leaned forward and buried his face in Crowley’s shoulder as the tension came unspooled, letting out a strangled moan, trying desperately not to say Crowley’s name. Crowley came as Aziraphale was lost in the fog of his own release, and he thought he heard the demon say something as his hips jerked involuntarily.

“What was that?” he said, pulling away from Crowley and trying to catch his breath. 

“I didn’t say anything,” said Crowley, a bit too quickly. He steadied himself with a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Is that what you...er, research accomplished?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Quite. Made rather a mess, though, haven’t we?”

“An unfortunate side effect,” said Crowley. He cleaned them both up with a snap of his fingers and adjusted his dark glasses. “Guess I’ll be going, then.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, I suppose I should get back to London.”

“Sure,” said Crowley. “You’ll let me know if anything comes up?”

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. “The Arrangement still stands.”

Crowley nodded to him, and they stood together for an awkwardly long moment, just staring at each other. Aziraphale got the sense that Crowley wanted to say something more, but eventually he gave one final nod and said, “Good luck with that bookshop.”

Before Aziraphale could even formulate a response, Crowley ducked back into the cafe and was gone. Though his trousers were clean, the aftershocks of what he’d just done lingered in Aziraphale’s muscle and bone. Then the gravity of it all hit him and he staggered forward, placing both hands against the brick wall to steady himself. He’d let himself be tempted, by the demon he was expressly directed to thwart. Worst of all, he hadn’t been tempted just now -- he’d been tempted _decades earlier_ and had lingered on it, finally deciding to give in.

No wonder he was receiving flaming memos from Gabriel. If he were Gabriel, he’d send down something far more menacing than a flaming memo. The euphoria he’d felt when Crowley touched him was fading now, replaced by a sickly feeling at the bottom of his stomach. He would say it was due to the crepes, but overindulgence in food didn’t make him feel ill the way it did humans. No, this was a disappointment in himself that he hadn’t felt since giving away his flaming sword. 

Eventually he felt better enough to leave the alley, to make his way back into town so he could find a ship leaving for England. He wanted nothing more than to miracle himself back to London, but surely that was frivolous enough to catch Heaven’s attention. The last thing he needed was Gabriel anywhere near him when he probably reeked of demon. 

On the ship, he stared out at the water and rehearsed the speech he’d make if anyone ever found out about this. Yes, Crowley had said it was all his doing and that no one in Heaven would find out, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but worry. He would have to be good from now on, better than he’d ever been before. He would need to do everything he could to show Heaven that he was, in fact, a good angel. He mustn’t indulge too much, he mustn’t enjoy his time here too much, and he mustn’t _mustn’t_ think about how good Crowley was at kissing.

* * * *

Crowley found the busiest, noisiest cafe in Paris and plonked himself down at a table. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat there, radiating demonic energy so that no one would bother him. He watched the people in the cafe chatting and laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Almost unconsciously he sowed doubt in the minds of lovers and soured the cream people had already poured into their coffees. He was just doing his job, all part of the brief.

What was most assuredly _not_ part of the brief was rescuing your adversary from discorporation, and then getting your rocks off with him. Definitely not in the brief. 

Even farther from the brief -- and Crowley had never had cause to look this up in the bylaws, but he felt pretty confident about it -- was feeling the way he’d felt when the angel had kissed him and rocked their hips together. And it wasn’t just physical pleasure, there had been something else. Something bright and unfamiliar bloomed just below his ribs when Aziraphale had spun them around, pressed him against the wall. He’d been surprised, pleasantly so, to find the angel was interested in a bit of temptation. 

But it was more than that. He’d tempted and seduced plenty of humans, and he’d never felt like this afterward. He wanted to see Aziraphale again, wanted to take him out for crepes, wanted to check in and see whether he’d set up that bookshop. None of this was in a demon’s job description. 

Nope, Crowley thought, as he took a sip of his coffee. Not in the brief.

[ ](https://ibb.co/7vp3X0x)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**London, 1800**

For the umpteenth time since setting out, Crowley paused to second guess himself. A young woman carrying a child pushed past him and muttered something under her breath. Even as preoccupied as he was, Crowley took a moment to pat himself on the back for annoying someone. He glanced down at the flowers and the box of chocolates he was carrying -- had irises been the right choice? Were chocolates better than an invitation to lunch? All of these doubts melded into one very large one -- should he even be doing this in the first place? 

No. Of course, the answer was no. But when he’d received Aziraphale’s letter announcing the grand opening of his bookshop (at long last), his first instinct had been to come and see it for himself. There hadn’t been an explicit invitation in the letter, but Crowley was choosing to read into the gesture. Why else would he have told him? Besides, they’d spoken about the shop the last time they’d seen each other, and Crowley was curious. 

Crowley moved to the edge of the pavement, back pressed against a shop window. This was ridiculous, he thought. There was no reason to see Aziraphale. He didn’t need saving, there was no Arrangement business to discuss. This was a purely social call, and Crowley had a feeling it could either set a dangerous precedent or put the angel off him for good. The most terrifying thought of all was that the precedent had already been set in Paris.

Crowley had spent most of the previous seven years not thinking about Paris. On cold, dank nights, when Crowley was stationed in some godforsaken village to sow discontent between one landowner and another, that was when he thought about Paris. At all other times it burned at the back of his brain, something to be judiciously avoided. If he revisited that moment too often, he would want more from Aziraphale, and that would fuck up a whole hell of a lot. No, better to keep it for himself, for when he really needed it. 

In seven years, Crowley had only seen Aziraphale here and there to discuss the Arrangement. He’d made sure the meetings were quick; no more poncing around eating crepes and exchanging witty repartee. They found each other, they exchanged assignments, and they went their separate ways. 

In the scope of their lives, seven years was a miniscule amount of time. But it felt like a gaping wound when Crowley realized it had been seven years since Aziraphale had touched him with any sort of purpose. 

But why should he? They were hereditary enemies on opposite sides of a very long, very absurd war. Paris was an aberration, and Crowley knew they should simply continue taking care of business and moving on. Which made it all the more ridiculous that he was here to congratulate Aziraphale on the bookshop. But heigh-ho, why turn back now? 

Eventually he gathered up his thoughts, stuffed them back in his head, and set off toward the bookshop. As the building came into view, Crowley couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. It was a beautiful corner property with two stories, and he wondered if Aziraphale might live over the shop, at least part time. A man on a very tall ladder was painting the words, _Mr. A. Fell Purveyor of Books to the Gentry, Est. 1800_ above the door, which was open. As Crowley approached, he saw Aziraphale talking to two men inside his shop. 

“...only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley.” 

Crowley froze. If Aziraphale was talking about him like that, talking about him at all, he could only be in the company of his fellow angels. Now that he was a bit closer and could get a better look, Crowley recognized the human shapes of Gabriel and Sandalphon. With a sigh, he stepped to the side of the doorway to wait them out -- and to eavesdrop, of course. 

“Whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are,” said Gabriel. “We’re considering Michael, actually.” 

Crowley instinctively frowned at the mention of Michael, and then Gabriel’s full meaning sunk in. _Replace?_ Why were they talking about replacing Aziraphale? 

“Crowley's been down here just as long as I have,” said Aziraphale. “And he's wily, and cunning, and brilliant, and oh…”

He trailed off, embarrassed, and Gabriel said, “It almost sounds like you like him.”

Crowley held his breath and cursed his luck. Today, of all days? Today, the archangels had to pay a visit and cock things up? 

Aziraphale, clearly flustered, responded, “I loathe him. And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent...which he isn't, because he's a demon, and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one.”

“That's the attitude I like to hear,” said Gabriel. He couldn’t possibly be that thick, could he? “You'll be an asset back at head office, I can tell you that.”

The head office. Aziraphale was being replaced because they were sending him back to Heaven. Crowley couldn’t feel his legs. He reached out to lean against the sign-painter’s ladder, only to recoil and murmur an apology when the man shooed him away. With no destination in mind, Crowley walked away from the shop, box of chocolates under his arm and flowers held listlessly in one hand. He ducked into the first alleyway he came upon and took a deep breath.

“Buggering shit!” Crowley tossed his top hat on the ground, and then the chocolates, and then the flowers. He stomped on the whole mess, both feet crushing it all like a petulant toddler. Out of breath and angry in multiple directions, Crowley leaned against the brick and tried to keep calm.

Stuck on earth without Aziraphale...it simply didn’t bear thinking about. Setting aside anything that had happened in Paris, Aziraphale was the only being he could talk to, _properly_ talk to. He couldn’t even imagine what his existence would be like if he was here alone -- even worse, if he were here with _Michael_. 

Crowley was winding up for another session of stomping on his belongings when he heard familiar voices. Gabriel and Sandalphon walked straight past the alley where he stood, and before he could second guess himself, Crowley darted out and started following them down the street. He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew he had to do something.

* * * *

There had been something in the air in 1793, particularly in Paris. All that revolution, all those strong feelings, had been swirling around them. That, Aziraphale had decided, was what caused the incident in the alleyway. It was difficult, though, to maintain that narrative in his head each time he saw Crowley. They’d met up several times in the subsequent years, all in the name of the Arrangement. Each meeting was a painful reminder of how they’d stood so close together, how Aziraphale had felt engulfed by Crowley’s scent. He took note of how Crowley kept his distance now, and it was clear that he thought they’d made a mistake. It was more likely that he didn’t think about it at all. It was a passing temptation, and Crowley had probably engaged in countless others since Paris.

For seven years, Aziraphale had truly tried to make up for his transgression, and to cut back on the frivolous miracles. He dressed modestly and kept few personal possessions, going wherever the whims of Heaven (or Crowley) took him. But he was still breaking rules, as though it were a compulsion now. He took a job as a vicar somewhere in Scotland and, instead of donating his wages to the church (as Heaven instructed him to do), he purchased books. He used a very small miracle to enlarge the inner space of a satchel, and he’d been storing his growing library there.

This new way of life seemed to work; Heaven seemed none the wiser about his pesky book addiction. In fact, Gabriel sent him a commendation for increasing church attendance in his parish. After receiving the commendation, Aziraphale decided it was time to open his bookshop. He had improved, clearly, in Heaven’s eyes. Now he would just need to fabricate a reason for settling in London and maintaining a book collection that masqueraded as a shop.

It was rather a shock when Gabriel and Sandalphon showed up on his doorstep with a promotion and a medal. A _medal._ What on earth did he need a medal for? They’d given him one after the war as well, something about leadership, and he’d purposely left it behind when he was stationed on earth. He’d been embarrassed by that award, bestowed on him for casting out his fellow angels. Now he was simply baffled -- how did he possibly deserve this?

As he stood there, staring down at the medal in its prim little case, Aziraphale could only think about how ridiculous it looked. _Extraordinary Services_...what did that even mean? Less than a decade ago they’d been admonishing him for popping across the Channel. Were a few years of good behavior and increasing church attendance worth this recognition? 

Aziraphale concentrated his thoughts on the medal, because if he thought about the promotion, he would likely do something rash. 

He was still holding the medal, now staring out the window of his new shop, when Gabriel and Sandalphon returned. Aziraphale turned to face them, mind working frantically to come up with an excuse for him to stay here. If he didn’t say anything, he would be stuck in Heaven, and he would never see…

“Change of plans,” said Gabriel, looking rather irritated. “We need you here. In your bookshop. Battling evil.”

Aziraphale was so monumentally relieved that he nearly laughed out loud. He was about to ask what had caused the change of plans when Sandalphon punched him in the arm. Aziraphale winced and looked at him quizzically. 

“Carry on battling,” said Sandalphon, grinning his rather creepy grin. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Aziraphale, trying his best to smile back. 

The archangels turned to leave the shop, but when they reached the doorway, Gabriel turned again to face him. “Keep the medal.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale. He waved to them, and then sunk into his new desk chair as soon as they’d gone. He rested his elbows on the desk and laid his head in his hands. Now he did laugh, a small and deranged sound that threatened to turn into tears of relief. 

“Angel, congratulations!”

Aziraphale lifted his head, surprised by the sound of a familiar voice. Were all his dreams coming true at once? Should he seize this moment and wish for more books? Crowley was standing -- well, leaning -- in his doorway, and he was carrying flowers and candy. As with the medal, Aziraphale was struck by the feeling that he didn’t deserve this. 

“Crowley,” he said, rounding the corner of his desk and stepping as near to the demon as he dared. “What are you doing here? You nearly ran into Gabriel and Sandalphon, they only just left.”

“Lucky timing, I suppose,” said Crowley. “Why were they here?”

“Oh, erm,” Aziraphale glanced back at the little box on his desk. “They gave me a medal, it was very strange. They nearly recalled me to Heaven, actually. But something changed their mind, I...I didn’t get a chance to ask what.” 

“Odd,” said Crowley, shrugging. “Would’ve been a shame, eh? What with the new bookshop and all?”

“Yes, the bookshop,” said Aziraphale. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Crowley properly. He couldn’t quite believe that he’d come to see the shop, to see him. 

“It’s a great space,” said Crowley, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. Then he turned back to Aziraphale and held out the flowers and candy. “These are for you. I didn’t want to come empty handed.”

“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale, taking the gifts, knowing that he was blushing fiercely. “You needn’t have brought anything.”

“Nonsense!” said Crowley. “A grand opening deserves to be celebrated.”

Aziraphale, who was examining the box of chocolates appreciatively, said, “Technically the grand opening is on Friday. But I am glad you came.” 

When he flicked his eyes upward, finally daring to catch Crowley’s gaze, he took note of the satisfied smirk on the demon’s face. Something was there, still. Perhaps Paris was not so far away after all. Just like that, everything Aziraphale had tried to forget and make amends for came back to him and doubled in strength when he locked eyes with Crowley. 

“Well, it’s been a while,” said Crowley. “D’you need a vase for those?”

“Yes, I think I have one around here somewhere.” 

Crowley snapped his fingers and a handsome white vase appeared on Aziraphale’s new desk. He nodded his head in thanks and placed the irises carefully, adding water with a quick gesture. The flowers brought the perfect pop of color to the space, and Aziraphale felt a twinge of sadness at the thought that they would wilt in a few short days. Perhaps he could give them an ethereal nudge now and again, just to see how long he could keep them around. 

“Any good books in here, then?” Crowley asked, arms folded over his chest, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Yes, quite a few,” said Aziraphale. He moved deeper into the shop, hoping that Crowley would follow. “I’ve been collecting some rather special volumes in the past few years. This edition of _Candide_ in particular is rather --” 

Aziraphale turned to show Crowley the book and found that the demon hadn’t followed him at all. A bit embarrassed, he brought the book back to his desk and found Crowley leaning there. He furrowed his brows, silently asking what Crowley was playing at. In response, Crowley raised both his eyebrows in a plea of innocence. 

“Well, anyway,” said Aziraphale, thrusting the book into Crowley’s hands. “This edition of _Candide_ is just spectacular. I found it in a very small shop in Scotland. That’s where I’ve been stationed for the past few years.”

“Yes, bringing more sheep into the flock,” said Crowley. He studied the book, turning it over in his hands and flipping to the first leaf. “I’d heard.”

“A bit boring, if I’m honest,” said Aziraphale. “But it did give me time to go book hunting. And the parishioners were so lovely. An elderly lady knitted me a pair of socks, can you imagine?”

“Tartan, I assume?”

“Why would you...ah.” Aziraphale adjusted his tie, which did happen to be patterned in tan tartan. Crowley, he noticed, wore all black so that no individual piece of his clothing could be distinguished from the others. 

Crowley continued to study the book, reading the first few lines of the introduction, and then flipping to the very middle of the book. Aziraphale watched him, wondering if he was reading out of order to annoy him or because he was searching for his favorite part. Crowley always insisted that he didn’t read, but Aziraphale had his suspicions. His small dark spectacles were slipping down his nose, giving Aziraphale a glimpse of the brilliant yellow he always hid. That gaze was transfixing, and he couldn’t understand why humans feared it rather than worshipping it.

“Crowley,” he said, softly. 

The demon looked up from the book and their eyes met without dark glass between them. Before he knew what he was doing, Aziraphale reached out to touch Crowley’s jaw. He leaned in and kissed him softly over the utterly perfect edition of _Candide._ He could smell the irises in their vase, and he could taste the coffee Crowley must have had earlier that morning. Crowley opened to him immediately, one hand clutching Aziraphale’s shoulder and sliding up to his throat. It was blissful, for a moment, something far softer than an alleyway in Paris.

After what felt like eons, Crowley pulled back and stared at Aziraphale in disbelief. Aziraphale, wanting to continue to shock him, leaned in, chasing his mouth again. But Crowley pushed gently on his chest, reinstating the distance between them.

“I...I don’t think --”

“Yes, of course, you’re right,” said Aziraphale, stepping back.

“It’s just that, we --”

“Oh, I know, and they --”

“It was just the one time.”

“For research.” 

"Yes," said Crowley, mouth twisted as though he'd tasted something unpleasant. "Research."

"And this…” said Aziraphale. He felt hollowed out, searching for the proper words somewhere inside his head. “I just wanted to thank you for the flowers, and the chocolates."

Crowley stared at him, and when he spoke his voice sounded oddly hoarse. "You could just say 'thank you.'"

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale took his book back from Crowley's slack hands and looked at him with his chin held high. "Thank you for the thoughtful gifts."

“You’re very welcome, angel,” said Crowley, with the barest ghost of a smile. 

They stared at each other for a moment too long, neither willing to say anything more on the subject. For his part, Aziraphale was full to the brim with things that he _could_ say, but he was afraid where any one of them might lead. So instead, his brain supplied something harmless. 

“Do you have business in the area, then?” 

Crowley straightened his dark glasses and cleared his throat. “Not really, no. But you know me, I can pick up work anywhere.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, smiling tightly at him. 

“Guess I should be going,” said Crowley, shrugging. 

“If you must,” said Aziraphale. He clutched _Candide_ to his chest, concentrating on keeping his face in check. 

Crowley nodded to him. “Best of luck with the bookshop.”

And then he was gone, a dark column of smoke sauntering down the street. Aziraphale watched him leave, holding the book close as though he could press the moment they had shared into his skin. He licked his lips and could still taste traces of Crowley’s coffee. There was something, Crowley had seemed to give in before pushing him away. But Aziraphale must have imagined it -- why else would Crowley have left in such a hurry? He’d been too forward, he’d assumed too much. 

“All finished, Mr. Fell!”

Aziraphale shook his head, quite surprised to find the sign painter was still there. He’d folded up his ladder and was standing in the doorway. 

“Jolly good,” he said, smiling broadly. “Thank you so much for your services. Here you are.”

Aziraphale produced a few coins from his pocket, the remainder of his wages from the parish in Scotland, and gave the lot to the sign painter. 

“Oh, this is too much, sir,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Please, take it," said Aziraphale.

The painter hesitated, then smiled and tipped his hat. “If you insist, sir. Best of luck, Mr. Fell!”

When the painter had gone, Aziraphale shut the door to his new shop and stood at the window. London was bustling around him, and he was right in the heart of it now. He glanced down at his special edition of _Candide_ , but he didn’t care to look at it anymore. With a sigh, he ambled into his back room and placed the book randomly on a shelf. It would stay there for quite a while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**St. James’ Park, 1862**

“Ah, there you are.”

“Be a bit _more_ obvious, please.”

“Well, I’ve been walking in circles looking for you.”

Crowley allowed himself a sidelong glance, taking in the old waistcoat, the tartan at his throat, and the top hat he’d admitted to loathing. “I haven’t been hiding.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “We should choose a meeting place that never changes. That way we can find each other no matter what.” 

Crowley sucked in a long breath through his nose. Finding Aziraphale had never been a problem for him. It was as though he had a sixth sense tuned into the angel’s whereabouts. The sense was magnified now that they lived in the same city and orbited a much smaller universe. He’d sensed the angel on the other side of the pond, moving this way and that, searching for Crowley, but he hadn’t gone to him. That would have been one step too close to admitting the connection. 

“Fine, this bench looks all right,” said Crowley, gesturing behind them. 

Aziraphale looked back at the bench and swiveled his head around, studying the area as though that would help him commit it to memory. “Yes, this will be it. Excellent. Now, why did you want to meet?”

After coming to see the bookshop decades earlier, Crowley had a crystal clear realization -- it was time to set down roots somewhere, and that somewhere was London. The very next day he’d paid a visit to Hell to report that the disgustingly virtuous angel Aziraphale had taken up residence in the burgeoning city. The only way, he explained, to keep him at bay was to do the same and follow his moves closely. That was the report Crowley gave to Beelzebub, but he wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself. He knew why he suddenly felt a powerful need to be in London, and it had nothing to do with thwarting the holy deeds of angels.

Crowley was no fool; he was painfully aware of the double-edged life he was creating. Seeing Aziraphale was frighteningly easy when Crowley knew exactly where to find him -- he didn’t even need his sixth sense. Popping into the bookshop became a weekly habit, and they’d been meeting in St. James’ Park to discuss Arrangement business. Crowley held more firmly to his boundaries now -- he didn’t, for example, let Aziraphale hand him any more bloody books or lean in familiarly so that Crowley could smell his cologne. But seeing Aziraphale this often gave Crowley’s mind an abundance of material to work with, and sometimes it went off the rails when he slept. 

Demons didn’t need to sleep, of course, but Crowley had always enjoyed the humans’ strange habit of turning off their brains at night. He indulged whenever he could, and it was more possible now that he had a comfortable townhouse where he spent his evenings. It was the sort of place he imagined his human self would live. If he really had been human, he would have a household staff of at least ten. As it was, he rattled around the place on his own and toyed with the idea of turning the library into a greenhouse. 

Crowley had a large, comfortable four-poster bed in his upstairs chambers, and he piled it high with the softest pillows and duvets. There was nothing quite like sinking beneath the layers at the end of the day. But lately he’d been having troublesome dreams. 

Sometimes he dreamt of Paris, but the scene dragged on for much longer than it had in real life. In his dreams, Crowley wrapped his legs around Aziraphale’s waist and let himself be taken. In his dreams, Crowley said everything that had run through his mind in that alleyway, everything he’d tamped down and tried to ignore. But more recently his mind had gone in another direction. For three days straight he dreamt of Aziraphale being ambushed by demons and dragged down into Hell. The first time had been shocking, the second had felt like an omen, and the third felt like someone trying to get their point across. So Crowley decided to act.

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” he said. He could feel sweat blooming under his collar; it was a really dreadful century for spending time in the sun. “What if it all goes wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“All of it. What if we’re found out?”

They were both facing the pond, trying to appear nonchalant, but Crowley could sense how Aziraphale stood up straighter. He wondered what the angel was thinking of then, truly -- the Arrangement, or their other dalliances.

“What are you saying?”

“I need a favor,” said Crowley, tightening his grip on the handle of his cane. It was an absurd piece, merely a part of the day’s fashions, but Crowley rather liked it. It helped, sometimes, to have something to do with one’s hands. 

“A favor?” said Aziraphale. “You’ve already goaded me into doing you a multitude of favors. That’s why we have the Arrangement.”

“Yes, but, this is for something else,” said Crowley. He hadn’t thought this through. How was he supposed to convey that he needed something off the books when they were standing in broad daylight? Anyone could be watching them just then. He looked around, trying to spot anyone acting strangely. “This is for if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“I like pears,” said Aziraphale, mournfully, and Crowley tried not to smile. 

Aziraphale was an absurd angel. Crowley had known this ever since he’d stood on the garden wall and heard Aziraphale admit to giving away his flaming sword. But the past fifty years had afforded him a close-up examination of all the ways in which Aziraphale was endearingly odd. He collected books like a magpie, he moaned obscenely over chocolate cake, and he cried at all live music performances. He seemed to soak up more about being human than the humans did themselves. Crowley enjoyed spending time with the angel more than he enjoyed anything else, and that fact could put them both in grave danger. 

“I want insurance,” he said, gesturing subtly to conjure a piece of paper in his pocket. “Here, I’ve written it down.” 

Crowley took the paper from his pocket and passed it to Aziraphale, holding his breath. He needed the angel to agree, for both their sakes. He knew it was a large ask, but it was the only thing that would set his mind at ease. It was the only thing he could use to defend them if the worst came to pass. He only hoped that Aziraphale would also see it that way.

“Out of the question.”

Crowley turned to him. “Why?”

“Because, you absolute fool. You call this insurance?” said Aziraphale, waving the paper at him. “Crowley, this would destroy you.”

“That’s not what I want it for,” said Crowley. “It’s...it’s just insurance.”

Aziraphale huffed out an angry breath. “I’m not an idiot, Crowley. I understand that you’re afraid. Do you know the trouble that _I’d_ be in if they knew we were...fraternizing?”

Crowley stared at him. “Fraternizing?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, eyebrows raised. “Whatever you wish to call it, then.” 

Crowley curled and uncurled his fingers along the smooth head of his cane. He wasn’t sure how he’d expected Aziraphale to describe their association, but _fraternizing_ had cut him to the quick. He wouldn’t dare to presume they were friends, but at least _enemies_ would have implied that Aziraphale had any feelings about him at all. _Fraternizing_ felt so impersonal, like it really was just about the Arrangement and anything else that happened was an aberration. Perhaps it was, perhaps Aziraphale really had just been after a human experience in Paris. Perhaps the kiss at the bookshop had only been a misplaced ‘thank you.’

“Right,” he said. “Fine. You want to stay in Gabriel’s good books. I get it.”

“Oh, really now.”

“No, I understand. Popping across the Channel for crepes is just fine and dandy, but you won’t step a toe out of line to help me.”

Aziraphale spluttered wordlessly for a moment, and then, “How can you possibly say that?”

“Just stating the facts,” said Crowley, still standing stock still and staring out at the pond. “Listen, I should get going. Hellish mischief won’t start itself.”

* * * *

Aziraphale watched as Crowley turned on his heel and marched up the path. He paused a few strides away, turned again, and walked back.

“You won’t reconsider?” he said.

Aziraphale planted his cane firmly in the ground and stared out at the pond. “I don’t think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“Right,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could _feel_ him seething. “Right. I have lots of other people to _fraternize_ with anyway. You know. Just for your information.” 

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t need you.” 

Aziraphale turned to him now, unable to hide how much that hurt. “Well, and the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”

He tossed the wretched piece of paper into the water. It was too insubstantial to be thrown, but Aziraphale gestured and the scrap dropped into the water. Then it promptly caught on fire. If Crowley said anything more, Aziraphale didn’t hear him. He was too busy continuing the conversation in his head, his heartbeat loud in his ears, drowning out the world around him. He stomped out of the park and headed back toward his bookshop. 

Normally, when Aziraphale was walking anywhere in London, he took his time and kept an eye out for people who might need some miraculous help. But today he was so angry and confused that he simply kept his head down and kept a steady pace until he reached the shop. He locked the door behind him and kept the sign turned to ‘closed.’ Aziraphale set down his cane and hat by the door and strode into his back room. He shuffled around, peering at his wine collection, but he couldn’t seem to decide on what to drink.

Aziraphale’s chest felt tight, and there was an odd burning sensation at the back of his throat. He wanted to walk the length and breadth of London until the feeling went away. But he settled for pacing back and forth inside the shop. He had seen what holy water could do to a demon. There was no coming back from such a punishment, it wasn’t a mere discorporation. Holy water destroyed a demon’s very essence, and in a very unpleasant way. The thought of that happening to Crowley was simply too much to bear.

It was a shame, really, for things to end up like this. Aziraphale thought they’d been having a lovely time. Sometimes, of a weekend, Crowley would come round the shop and they would enjoy some of Aziraphale’s wine. They went to lunch, they went to the park, they had pastries. He’d enjoyed it, and he’d managed to behave himself. No more kissing, no more untoward desires. He couldn’t imagine why Crowley was so worried. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t spent time together before. Well, perhaps not this much time. 

All at once, a sick feeling encompassed him, and he sunk down into his favorite chair. It was his fault. He’d invited Crowley to see the bookshop, and London had clearly made an impression on the demon because he’d decided to set down roots. If Crowley weren’t here, they wouldn’t be seeing each other so often, and he wouldn’t need to worry about Hell discovering their liaison. Aziraphale had invited Crowley because he’d missed him, he’d selfishly wanted to see him again. Now Crowley, clearly feeling trapped, wanted a suicide pill for when it all went -- as he put it -- pear-shaped.

After Paris, he’d resolved to be better, but he was clearly still making a mess of things. It had been wrong to want more, to see Crowley more often. It had certainly been wrong to kiss him when he’d shown up at his shop. He must do better, he must be better. He would start now, by letting Crowley be for a while. If they spent some time apart, surely Crowley would calm down and forget this holy water nonsense. 

A week went by, and not a peep. Then a month, and soon it was the next year. 

Ten years passed without so much as a lunch invitation. Before Aziraphale knew it, fifty years had gone by without a word from Crowley. He’d thought for sure the demon would show up when the world went to war, but there was no sign of him. Aziraphale went on as he had before, quietly resigned to never seeing his old friend again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**London, 1941**

Eighty years of radio silence, and now Crowley was hopping his way down the aisle of the church toward him. It was as though he'd somehow read Aziraphale's thoughts moments earlier, when the German spy had her gun pointed in his face. It was annoying, of course, to be discorporated, but Aziraphale had mainly been thinking of Crowley, and how they might never see each other again. It took ages to be assigned a new corporation, and how would they ever find each other? 

_Eighty years._ He’d given up hope, and now Crowley was here.

During their time apart, Aziraphale had considered several explanations for the separation -- that Crowley had decided to stay away for his own safety, that Crowley was lying low until some arbitrary time when he thought he could see Aziraphale again, that Crowley was finished with him for good. By far the most painful explanation was that Crowley had found a different source of holy water and done himself in.

There had been several times, mostly during the Great War, when Aziraphale had been sure Crowley would turn up. There was a trench on the Western Front, a military hospital in France, an influenza ward in London. But the demon had stayed away, so Aziraphale had kept his head down and continued the work of an angel on earth. He saved very few people; Heaven was not overly keen on doling out that level of salvation. Every now and again, to encourage belief amongst people, it was all right. But when something as large as a war or an epidemic struck, Aziraphale was left feeling helpless. 

Now the world was at it again, hurling bombs at each other for some perceived purpose. When it had all begun, Aziraphale had simply felt tired. But he’d found a place with the SOE (or so he’d thought), and that had been keeping him afloat. It seemed, though, that he’d been hoodwinked, which was very embarrassing. Even more so now that Crowley had shown up. Aziraphale couldn’t take his eyes off him, that lean figure hopping from foot to foot, slowly making his way up the aisle. _Like bare feet at the beach,_ he said, but Aziraphale worried that it hurt more than that. And he was enduring it for him. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying his best to sound more incredulous than relieved. 

“Stopping you getting into trouble,” said Crowley, as though it hadn’t been eighty years, as though they hadn’t said horrible things to each other in the park that day.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, his heart racing. “These people are working for you.”

“No!” said Crowley, clearly offended. “These are a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies. I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.”

Oh, it was almost too much. Who did he think he was -- showing up like this after not so much as a letter for so long? Yes, Aziraphale was embarrassed to be tricked, but shouldn’t Crowley be embarrassed as well? Shouldn’t he be apologizing to Aziraphale now, for making a ridiculous request, and then running off and hiding? He felt lightheaded, and not just because he’d had a gun pointed at his face moments earlier. 

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley,” said one of the Nazis, and Aziraphale swung his head around in confusion. “Your reputation precedes you.” 

“Anthony?” said Aziraphale, gaping at the hopping demon. 

“You don’t like it?” said Crowley, with no further explanation. 

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale replied, considering the name, running it through his head a few times. It was rather a larger change than it had been from Crawly to Crowley. But somehow it suited the demon, who was looking rather sharp just then. “I’ll get used to it.”

There was a smile, he was sure there was a smile. Though it had been eighty years, and they were trapped in a church with ridiculous Nazi spies, Crowley smiled at him. Suddenly nothing else mattered, and Aziraphale just wanted to keep talking to him. 

“What does the _J_ stand for?”

Crowley made a series of characteristically nonsensical noises and shrugged. “S’just a _J_ , really.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to object to this, to tell him that simply wasn’t done, to have him ask what _A.Z._ stood for, to stretch the banter until the Nazis tired of them both. But then something seemed to catch Crowley’s eye, and he danced a few steps away from them.

“Look at that! A whole fontful of holy water, and there aren’t even any guards.” 

Aziraphale glared at him. How could he bring that up now? He was supposedly here to rescue Aziraphale from embarrassment, but he was still thinking about the holy water?

“Enough babbling,” said the Nazi with the glasses. “Kill them both.”

Oh, dear. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley with the silent plea to _do something._ It was an old habit, brought back from a trip to Paris. The right furrow of his brows and he knew Crowley would help him. But did they still have that understanding? If Crowley was still after holy water, perhaps he was still uninterested in ‘fraternizing’ with Aziraphale. Perhaps he would decide to simply save himself and leave Aziraphale here. But then...

“No, no, hang on,” said Crowley, darting back to the issue at hand. “In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here. If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won't enjoy dying. Definitely won't enjoy what comes after.”

One spy scoffed at him. “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

“Yes,” said Crowley. “It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes. You're all wasting your valuable running-away time!”

So that’s what he had planned, Aziraphale thought. Diverting a bomb like that was a rather large miracle...could he manage to redirect the warhead and also save them both from the blast?

“And,” Crowley continued, now definitely staring straight at Aziraphale. “If, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”

 _Friend._ Crowley called him his friend. Yes, of course, Aziraphale knew that it was only for the humans’ sake. Their true relationship was far too complicated to describe in one word. It was easier to tell people they were friends, Crowley had been doing it for years. Shakespeare himself had been under the impression they were friends. Yet the word caused a familiar warm bloom in Aziraphale’s chest, and he caught Crowley’s gaze. 

“A real miracle?” he said, eyebrows raised. 

“Kill them,” said the bespectacled spy. “They are very irritating.”

They didn’t have a chance to kill them, however. Just as soon as Aziraphale locked eyes with Crowley, he heard the whine of a bomb, growing ever closer. He glanced up at the ceiling of the church and concentrated his celestial energy on himself and Crowley. He placed his hat on his head, centering himself and remaining calm as the bomb struck. All around them was chaos and destruction, but he and Crowley were left standing amidst the rubble. 

When the smoke cleared, Aziraphale lowered his defenses and surveyed the damage. The church’s steel foundations stuck up at odd angles, and the Nazi spies had been buried by the heavy stone. To his left, Crowley was leaning nonchalantly against a pile of rubble, polishing his glasses. 

“That was very kind of you,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley smirked at him and replaced his glasses. “Shut up.”

“Well, it was,” Aziraphale persisted. “No paperwork, for a start.”

Little fires crackled all around them, and Aziraphale thought they should probably make a hasty escape. Aside from the danger amongst the rubble, it would surely look odd for two apparent humans to have survived such an airstrike. He glanced around, almost absentmindedly, for his books. Then he realized, with a terrible sinking feeling, that he’d never taken them back from the Nazis.

“Oh, the books,” he gasped, eyes roving the rubble to see if he might spot them. “Oh, I forgot all the books! Oh, they'll all be blown to--”

Aziraphale didn’t even see Crowley move, didn’t see him cross the piles of rubble to crouch beside him and pluck the bag from the spy’s hand. All of a sudden he turned, and Crowley was standing there, holding out the bag to him. Aziraphale stared at him, stunned. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” said Crowley. “Lift home?”

Aziraphale stood there, in the rubble of an old church, and felt his heart expanding in his chest. Crowley didn’t have to come and save him. They hadn’t spoken in nearly a century. Yet here he was, in his sharp suit with his new name, dancing across consecrated ground just for him. If that weren’t enough, he’d _saved_ the _books._ It was a miracle that would most definitely be seen as frivolous, as it served no one but Aziraphale. That simple act left Aziraphale reeling and rethinking everything that was said in St. James’ Park. What if Crowley’s request had not been self-serving at all? 

After what seemed like hours, Aziraphale snapped back to himself, and Crowley’s words registered in his brain properly. “Lift?”

Crowley, apparently, had purchased an automobile. It was black, and the front portion jutted out almost rudely from the rest of the car. The headlights and hubcaps came first, as though they could push their way through a crowded street. Aziraphale had never ridden in an automobile, and he was rather wary of them on the whole. But he had no other way to get back to his shop, and Crowley had so kindly offered. 

“It’s a Bentley,” said Crowley, standing proudly by the car. “Bought her new back in ‘33. Humans are dead clever about some things, aren’t they? I mean, look at this beautiful machine.”

“Yes, it’s very...shiny,” said Aziraphale, hesitantly. “I’m sorry, 1933?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Crowley, tossing the Bentley’s key in the air and catching it deftly.

“I see. It’s just that...well, I haven’t heard from you for quite a while,” said Aziraphale, fingers tightening around the handle of the satchel. If he gripped it harder, perhaps it would remind him that, whatever else was about to be said, Crowley had cared enough to come here. 

“It has been a while,” said Crowley, ducking his head so that the brim of his hat hid his face. Well, Aziraphale thought, at least he had the decency to be embarrassed now.

“What have you been up to, then?” he asked.

Crowley shrugged his shoulders, which appeared even sharper than normal in his stylish suit. “Slept through the end of the nineteenth century, and the start of the twentieth.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, because he wasn’t sure how else to respond. Had Crowley been moping about not getting the holy water? What could possibly induce him to sleep for that long?

“Turned out to be a great strategy,” Crowley continued. “When I did wake up, it was the roaring twenties. Well, no one does excess like the Americans, so I went over to New York for a bit.”

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale. It felt strange to know that Crowley had been on an entirely different continent. It seemed that Aziraphale should have known, that he should have felt it somehow. 

“Then the economy took a dive,” said Crowley. “And then things started getting a bit rumbly over here, so I came back. Listen -- should we be getting on?”

“Oh, er, yes, of course,” said Aziraphale.

He would have gladly stood there all night, bombs falling on the city and his bookshop left unguarded, to hear more of what Crowley had been up to. That would have also delayed the moment at which he would have to enter this metal beast and experience the so-called joy of an automobile. But Crowley walked around the car’s long nose and opened the passenger-side door for him. It was another old-fashioned act of chivalry, certainly on par with salvaging a bag of books. Aziraphale bowed his head in thanks and slid into the car, placed the satchel at his feet. 

The Bentley was full of dials and buttons with which Aziraphale would not have known what to do. Crowley, on the other hand, seemed to be an expert at operating the machine. Aziraphale watched with wonder as he slid the key into the ignition and turned it, waiting to hear the engine turn over. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he put his foot down and they were off. The sensation was absolutely horrid, and Aziraphale had to shut his eyes several times in fear. He had never vomited before, and he had to concentrate very hard now to maintain equilibrium in his corporation. 

After what simultaneously felt like seconds and hours, the Bentley pulled up outside the bookshop. Aziraphale let go of the door handle, fingers stiff from clutching it so tightly, and turned to Crowley. The demon had never looked cooler or calmer. 

“Well, so, that’s an automobile,” said Aziraphale, rather dumbly. 

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” said Crowley, grinning at him. 

“You’re horrible,” said Aziraphale. But his annoyance thawed a bit when Crowley opened the car door for him again. “Please, won’t you come in?”

Aziraphale began walking to the shop door, and then realized that Crowley wasn’t following him. The demon was leaning against his car, expression unreadable. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, absolutely,” said Aziraphale, gesturing for him to follow. “I insist, we can have a drink.”

Reluctantly, Crowley pushed off his car and sauntered after Aziraphale, following him to the shop. Once inside, there was a hushed moment, as though the shop was welcoming Crowley back after such a long absence. Then it passed, and Crowley exhaled noisily. 

“So, what were you doing tangled up with a bunch of Nazi spies?”

“I thought I’d signed up with the SOE,” said Aziraphale, bashfully. “I thought I was helping.”

“Honest mistake,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, as though to say ‘thank you’ and also ‘I know it was actually very stupid, don’t spare my feelings.’ He made his way to the back room, glad to hear that Crowley was following with his slow, irregular steps.

“How did you find me, then?” Aziraphale asked, peering at his wine collection. 

“Er, well. I really have been working with the SOE,” said Crowley. “Sort of a double agent kind of deal, pretending to help them while actually sabotaging. Anyway, they mentioned something about Nazi spies tracking down books of prophecy. That rang a bell.” 

Aziraphale turned around to find Crowley with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Crowley! Working with the SOE, that’s rather exciting.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise. “S’fine. It’s nothing, really. Like I said, I’m mostly just trying to make trouble.”

Aziraphale said nothing but privately wondered if the demon was hiding the truth of his involvement. After all, he’d seen him try to save a group of children when Noah was loading up his ark. He’d seen how distressed he’d been at Jesus’ crucifixion, and he had endless examples of kind deeds Crowley had done for him. He wouldn’t be surprised if “causing trouble” was simply a cover for “helping the Allies.” 

“I’ve got a 1900 Bordeaux, would that be all right?”

“Sounds lovely,” said Crowley, taking a seat at the small table in Aziraphale’s back room. 

“You missed some rather good stuff at the end of the last century,” said Aziraphale, puttering around to open the bottle of Bordeaux and fetch some glasses. If he stood still for too long, he would simply stare at Crowley. It was so good to have him back in the shop, sitting in his old spot at the table. “The gavotte, for one.”

“What, pray tell, is the _gavotte_?” 

“It’s...well, it’s a dance.” Aziraphale set down the bottle and glasses and proceeded to do a few steps. He’d never forget the gavotte; it reminded him of all the lovely men at the Hundred Guineas Club. Such a pity, he thought, that humans had such short life spans.

Crowley gaped at him and removed his glasses, the better to see his dance. “You’re ridiculous. Do you know that?”

Aziraphale stopped dancing and tugged at his waistcoat. “I’ve been told as much once or twice. Mostly by you.”

“Where did you learn the dance, angel?” Crowley asked, setting his glasses on the table. 

“At a gentleman’s club,” said Aziraphale, sitting down across from him. “I was rather...well, I was a bit lonely, I suppose, while you were gone. I found some lovely friends, though.”

Aziraphale concentrated on pouring the wine because he was afraid of what he might see if he looked up at Crowley. He slid one glass across the table and took a long drink from his own, eyes still downcast.

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, rather unexpectedly. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Aziraphale finally looked up and was surprised to see Crowley pinning him in place with a fiercely remorseful gaze. Without his glasses, he was splayed open with nowhere to hide. The sadness and regret in his face was enough to knock the breath from Aziraphale’s chest. He fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, blinking hard.

“You know,” he said, at last. “You could have taken that holy water tonight. You’re right, it was just sitting there.”

“Too busy, wasn’t I?” said Crowley, bringing the wine glass to his lips. “Had to save you.”

Aziraphale watched the bob of Crowley’s throat as he took several large gulps of the Bordeaux. It was obscene; how dare he come here and drink wine in this fashion? Aziraphale felt angry enough to shove Crowley against the opposite wall and tell him exactly what he thought of his flashy car and the angular suit that fit him so perfectly. He took a drink, trying to swallow down the desires burning in the deepest parts of him. 

They were both rather startled and quite tipsy when the all-clear sirens sounded. Aziraphale despised the sound of the sirens, but he thought he could endure nights like this a bit better if Crowley were here. He knew it couldn’t be this way, not every night, but he was glad they’d had this. Just one night was enough, it would have to be. He could handle a visit every now and then, he was sure of it. 

Then Crowley stood up from the table and said he had to be going. 

“Oh, please don’t,” said Aziraphale, the words escaping him before he could think better of it, his voice sounding far off and feeble to his own ears.

“I...I really should,” said Crowley. 

“But it’s been so long.” Aziraphale got up from the table. The wine was in control now, and some part of his brain was screaming for him to stop. But the rest of him didn’t listen, following Crowley into the next room, cornering him so that he couldn’t leave.

Aziraphale teetered toward Crowley, and then rocked back on his heels. He was reminded of the last time he’d thanked him for something, when the demon had stood at his doorstep with flowers and candy. He wanted to offer the same gesture now. Crowley was so close, head angled downward, staring at Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, his voice shaking. “For saving the books.”

“Of course,” said Crowley, sounding winded. “Knew you’d want to keep them.”

“That was...very kind of you.” _Kind, so unbearably kind. How did you become so kind?_ Aziraphale wanted to press the words into Crowley’s skin, to make him believe them. 

But Crowley bristled at the word, shrugged his shoulders like he was trying to shift something off of them. “It was nothing. Really.”

But it was. Crowley always seemed to downplay the things he did for Aziraphale -- breaking him out of the Bastille, congratulating him on his shop opening, and a thousand other little things in between. And now this, a simple satchel of books salvaged from the rubble of a church. It was more than that, of course, it was burned feet dancing on holy ground and bothering to come at all when they hadn’t seen each other in so long.

“Crowley,” he said, stepping toward him. Crowley took a step back in response, as though they were tethered together and the movement of one resulted in movement of the other. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” said Crowley, hands up as though he could hold Aziraphale back. “I said it was nothing. I know you like books, so I saved the books. So what? I just did it to avoid your griping about lost literature.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Like Alexandria?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” said Crowley.

“I’m sorry I insinuated that you started the fire.”

“S’fine,” said Crowley. “A fair assumption to make, really.”

“It wasn’t,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head and taking another step forward. 

Crowley stepped back but had nowhere else to go. He backed straight into a bookshelf and startled himself, glancing around for a possible exit. But Aziraphale took one big step forward and he may as well have been on top of the demon. Up close, Crowley was jittery, fingers waggling nervously and breath coming hard. Aziraphale trailed his hands down Crowley’s arms and grabbed the demon’s fingers to still them. With that simple touch, Crowley let out a long breath and seemed to settle. 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, again, and this time he punctuated it with a gentle press of his lips at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. As he pulled back, Crowley followed him, a small noise emanating from the back of his throat. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, leaning forward to capture the angel’s lips.

The kiss was gentle, searching. It’s not that passion wasn’t present, it was simply held at bay. Everything slowed down, and Aziraphale was dimly aware of Crowley extricating his hands so he could rest them on Aziraphale’s hips. Aziraphale’s arms hung dumbly at his sides; he was afraid that if he touched Crowley he wouldn’t be able to stop, not ever. For a very long while, Aziraphale simply shut off his brain and indulged in the feel of Crowley’s lips against his own. He let things deepen, let them press closer together, but when Crowley licked into his mouth he pulled back gasping. 

“Oh, dear,” he said, one hand pressed to his forehead. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, chest heaving.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head. “I, I…we cannot be doing this.” 

Crowley was staring at him, and for once he wasn’t jumping in to agree. He licked his lips, the slit pupils of his golden eyes much larger than normal. There was eagerness there, a dangerous energy rising up to meet Aziraphale where he’d pressed his lips to Crowley’s. Aziraphale had been ready to do something foolish, but now he felt oddly sober. They couldn’t, they shouldn’t.

With the demon still staring at him, waiting for the next move, Aziraphale placed one hand on Crowley’s cheek. “I’m afraid you’re right, my dear. You really should be going.”

The fire in Crowley’s eyes ebbed, and he seemed to come back to himself. Part of Aziraphale was disappointed to see that fire disappear, but he pushed that part deep into his chest. Crowley took a breath and sidestepped past Aziraphale, walking to the back room again. He emerged with his glasses on, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Try not to get in any more trouble, angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Soho, London, 1967**

Aziraphale stood at the small sink in the back room of his bookshop. A tartan thermos was perched on the lip of the sink, waiting for him to make his decision.

Several weeks earlier, purely by chance, Aziraphale had overheard someone at the newsagent’s speaking in hushed tones about an under-the-table deal they’d gotten in on. Apparently there was a strange man offering money to anyone who would help him rob a church. He wouldn’t tell them what he wanted there, but he was willing to pay, and that was all that mattered. Aziraphale had mentally drawn the straight line from Crowley to holy water, with a church robbery smack in the middle, and had spent the rest of that evening fretting. 

At first he waited, wondering if something as absurd as a church robbery would make it into the papers. He bought all the dailies each morning and read every single word, but there was no mention of the heist. After a week with no news, Aziraphale decided that he needed to act. He would need to give Crowley the holy water himself. Clearly Crowley would stop at nothing to get his hands on it, and Aziraphale wanted desperately to keep him safe. Of course, handing him a substance that would utterly destroy him felt like the very opposite of keeping him safe.

Standing at his sink, vision slightly blurred by tears, Aziraphale thought back to the war. Crowley had danced his way into that church to save him. Now it was his turn, Aziraphale thought, to do something like that for Crowley, even if it meant losing him. 

As that thought struck him, Aziraphale leaned against the sink and fought back a sob. A world without Crowley would be a pale and sad version of his current world. He would still have his books, but who would he talk to about them? He would still have his restaurants, but dining alone would not be much fun without someone to chat to between courses. He knew exactly how this world without Crowley would feel; he had lived that way for eighty years. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. He switched on the tap and filled the thermos. Then he held it between his hands and spoke the necessary words. His hands and the thermos emitted a bright white light that flared and then died down quickly. Aziraphale carefully placed the cap on the thermos and checked the exterior for any drips. Satisfied that the thermos safely contained the holy water, he went to find Crowley. 

Perhaps by giving him the holy water now, by showing him that he didn’t want him barrelling into dangerous situations, Aziraphale could make Crowley understand that he couldn’t live without him. Perhaps then Crowley would reconsider, and he would never have cause to use the holy water Aziraphale was handing him.

* * * *

“What are you doing here?” said Crowley, startled to find the angel sitting in his passenger seat. He was certain the Bentley had been empty when he’d begun crossing the street.

“I needed a word with you,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley steeled himself. He hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale since the coronation, in 1953. Crowley couldn’t give a toss about the latest in a very long string of monarchs he’d seen rise and fall, but Aziraphale had seemed interested. So they’d met up in St. James’ Park and walked to Westminster to see the procession. Crowley had remarked -- rather aptly, he’d thought -- on the presence of holy water in the Abbey. Aziraphale got upset, words were exchanged, and the angel left before the ceremony finished. Since then -- radio silence.

Now Aziraphale had appeared in the Bentley, and Crowley knew why he was there. He was appalled that the angel had shown up for this conversation looking this good. There was something special about his hair (perhaps he’d combed it, for once), and he’d exchanged his bowtie for a tartan cravat. 

“I work in Soho,” said Aziraphale. “I hear things. I hear you’re setting up a… _caper_ to rob a church.”

 _You’d better have heard,_ thought Crowley, as relief flooded into his bones. Yes, Soho was a convenient place for finding people with dubious morals who would be interested in his "caper." But it was also Aziraphale’s neighborhood, and that had certainly influenced his choice of locale. He didn’t _want_ to rob a church, but he needed the holy water. Spreading the word around Soho had been strategic, and he'd begun to worry that it wouldn’t pay off.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous,” Aziraphale continued. “Holy water won’t just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.”

Crowley tried to ignore the emotion in the angel’s voice. He sounded breathless, as though it was painful for him to be in the car, to be sitting there with Crowley. This was a song Crowley had heard before; if Aziraphale was only here to admonish him again, then the whole endeavor had been pointless. 

“You told me what you think,” he said. “One hundred and five years ago.” 

“And I haven’t changed my mind,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley turned away, staring through the windshield at all the people walking down Greek Street. It had been such a long time, and he was so tired. He was tired of sending pointless memos to Hell, tired of having this argument with Aziraphale, tired of pretending. If he had the holy water, he would have some guarantee of protection. Then maybe, _maybe_ , he could allow himself an inch of breathing space.

“But I can’t have you risking your life,” said Aziraphale. “Not for this. So you can call off the robbery.”

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, who was now holding a tartan thermos out to him. Crowley’s brain jumped to a conclusion and he fought it back. That thermos couldn’t possibly hold what he thought it held. He stared at it, and then up at the angel, who was breathing heavily. Aziraphale’s hands were steady on the thermos, but there was something boiling beneath his surface. Crowley couldn’t believe his whisper campaign had worked. He’d done it as a last ditch effort -- plan something foolish and wait for rescue. He’d rescued Aziraphale so many times, and something in the back of his brain had suggested standing on the other side of that equation, just this once.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” said Aziraphale, visibly flustered now. 

Crowley reached for the thermos slowly, so slowly. He was half afraid of spilling the holy water and half afraid that Aziraphale might pull it away at the final moment. As soon as he laid his hands on it, Aziraphale let go. Crowley tried not to dwell on that, on the fact that Aziraphale might not want them to accidentally touch. 

“It’s the real thing?” Crowley asked, because he had no idea what to say. 

“The holiest,” said Aziraphale. 

“After everything you said.” It wasn’t a question, just an acknowledgement that Aziraphale had changed his mind. He didn’t dare ask why he’d reconsidered. The situation felt frail enough without unnecessary questions. Aziraphale nodded and turned away, and Crowley held the thermos in his lap. “Should I say thank you?”

Aziraphale took a quick breath and frowned. “Better not.”

Crowley groped for words. His mind was reeling from the fact that he now had holy water in his possession, and he’d gotten it from the only source he’d trust. Aziraphale was rubbing his hands on his thighs, nervous, fidgeting. Crowley wished he knew what the angel was thinking just then. He wished they could go back to the bookshop, as they’d done during the war. He wished that Aziraphale would let him thank him properly. Why did he get to make all those moves? Why was he the gatekeeper of those precious moments they shared in spite of everything? 

“Can I drop you anywhere?” he asked, not sure what answer he was hoping for. 

“No, thank you,” said Aziraphale, with forced cheeriness. 

Of course not, Crowley thought. The angel must know what he wanted to do -- crowd him up against a bookshelf and return the favor so freely given decades earlier. But things were different now, apparently. Something had fractured between them. 

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” said Aziraphale, trying his damndest to smile. “Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know...go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

Why _one day_ , Crowley wanted to ask. Why later rather than that very evening? What was the angel hoping would change? Nothing would ever change, at least not until everything went up in flames. Did he think they could sneak away then, for one final stolen moment? 

“I’ll give you a lift,” he said, hoping it conveyed everything he meant it to. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale glanced at him, and Crowley could tell that he wanted to accept the invitation. For the first time that night they looked at each other properly, and Aziraphale didn’t break the gaze. His expression was soft, open, and Crowley wished he could do something about it. What if he diverted the attention of everyone on the street and reached out? Would Aziraphale meet him halfway, would he accept the invitation then? 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, as though the words were being pressed from his lungs. He sucked in a quick breath, nearly a gasp, and kept staring at him. 

And then he was gone. The angel leaned forward for the door handle, and Crowley had time to stop him, but he didn’t. He simply stared after him, watching as he shut the door to the Bentley and crossed the street. Then he looked down at the thermos again, with its ridiculous tartan pattern and tightly closed lid.

“What,” he said, to his empty car. “The _hell_ just happened?”

Crowley pondered the angel’s words as he drove back to Mayfair, to his empty concrete flat. What did they mean? Of course his first thought was that Aziraphale was just complaining about his driving; he certainly hadn’t seemed to enjoy it during the war. But it couldn’t possibly be that simple. Otherwise Aziraphale wouldn’t have looked as though it cost him dearly to say it. 

Though Aziraphale had been the one to push past their boundaries so many times, Crowley was always the first one on the scene. In Paris, he’d fallen over himself to rescue the angel and then casually mentioned that he might be interested in sex. He’d been the one to show up at the bookshop, to request holy water in the first place, to salvage those bloody books from the church. Crowley had been leading the angel astray for centuries, and now it seemed that he wouldn’t allow it any longer. 

Too right, he thought. Someone had to stop him before he ran headlong into Hell’s wrath. He’d already been booted out of Heaven, it would be quite something to also be expelled from Hell. No one had ever managed that before; Crowley could be a pioneer on the shores of a new way to self-destruct. He’d pushed too far, he’d let it go on too long. Back before the long nap, Crowley had thought Aziraphale refused him the holy water out of concern for his well-being, thinking that he might do something foolish. That no longer seemed to be the case. At least not judging by the thermos Crowley now had in his possession. 

Crowley didn’t cry often. Aziraphale seemed like a leaky faucet, with tear ducts ready to go at a moment’s notice. Crowley certainly felt the urge to cry at times, but he always held back. That night, with the tartan thermos staring him down in his cavernous flat, Crowley let it out, just this once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Soho, London, 1985**

Crowley was in Soho quite often, as there was a lot of tempting to be done on those streets. Each time he was in the neighborhood, he toyed with the idea of popping into the bookshop. He hadn’t been inside the familiar, comfortable building since just after the war. He’d walked and driven by it countless times, but it had never felt like the right time to visit. Sometimes it simply looked very pointedly closed, and he didn’t feel comfortable imposing.

In the years after the holy water incident, there seemed to be no room for approaching Aziraphale. Crowley had expected to feel more at ease once he’d gotten his hands on some holy water, but it seemed the price he had to pay for his insurance was Aziraphale’s absence from his life. The irony of this hit Crowley over the head like a ton of bricks. He’d been trying to avoid the time, and now he wasn’t even doing the crime. 

At first he thought he should just let the angel have his bloody space. Clearly he wanted nothing to do with Crowley, so Crowley abided by that. But he’d reached a point at which he was so lonely and bored that the holy water was becoming enticing, and that was a dangerous precipice to approach. So there was nothing else for it -- he’d had to force Aziraphale’s hand. 

In the old days, temptations had largely been about the church. While you could still accomplish something by leading religious figures astray, both Heaven and Hell had caught on to the power of politics. Crowley knew that whatever misdeeds he inspired in the Houses of Parliament would make their way back to Heaven. As the emissaries for their respective sides, Aziraphale and Crowley were often directed to specifically act in opposition to each other. Before, this had been rather funny, as each obviously knew what the other was up to. Now it became a way to get Aziraphale’s attention. 

Crowley started off small, tempting politicians into enriching themselves financially and engaging in tawdry affairs. When that didn’t work, he began influencing Tory politicians rather heavily, though he couldn’t stand to be around them. That still got him nowhere, so he did something that some might call rash. He sent a memo taking credit for Bloody Sunday.

Extravagant though it may have been, it certainly did the trick. Aziraphale telephoned him for the first time in years to ask what on earth he’d been thinking. He let the angel shout at him for several minutes, just glad to hear his voice again, before assuring him that that awful day had been entirely the humans’ doing. After that, the door was open -- they began speaking again, and soon they were meeting up in restaurants to discuss the Arrangement. And yet, their previous closeness seemed unattainable.

One summer evening, Crowley had been at a pub near the bookshop getting some work done. This mostly entailed messing up people’s drink orders and sowing seeds of doubt between partners. It was almost too easy, as alcohol already made humans sloppy with their morals and decisions. When he was finished there, he made his way up the street to where he’d parked the Bentley. This happened to lead him past The Kings Arms, and all at once he was reminded of Aziraphale and his gentleman’s club back at the turn of the century. He’d never gotten the full story, after all. If he brought along some wine, perhaps they could talk like the old days.

So he found himself at the bookshop, standing at the door like a fool. He could hear classical music playing inside, something by Schubert, but most of the lights were off. After several minutes, Crowley took a deep breath and knocked on the door. It was another minute or so before Aziraphale pushed aside the shade and peered out onto the street. When he saw that it was Crowley darkening his doorstep, he unlocked the door and swung it open. 

“Hallo there,” said the angel, and Crowley could tell straight away that he was drunk. His hair was a bit disheveled, and his eyes were overly bright. “What brings you to my bookshop, you wily serpent?”

“Steady on, angel,” said Crowley. “I, er, brought some wine, but it seems like you’ve had enough already.”

“Never enough, my dear boy, never enough,” said Aziraphale, beckoning him inside. “Come along, and lock it behind you.” 

Crowley did as he was told, following Aziraphale’s unsteady path. The darkened bookshop and Aziraphale’s inebriated state conspired to make the angel trip over the edge of the rug. Crowley had to lunge to grab his arm and keep him upright. 

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, laughing weakly. “I must be more careful.” 

“Is everything all right?” Crowley asked, letting go of his arm once he was steady again. He’d only ever seen Aziraphale this drunk when they drank together. Why was he getting this smashed by himself? 

“No,” Aziraphale grumbled. “Of course not. Everything is going to hell in a handbasket. But try explaining that to Gabriel.”

As he watched Aziraphale shuffle to the back room, Crowley pondered possible follow-up questions. Aziraphale never spoke much about his fellow angels. He made passing remarks about what Heaven thought or what they wanted him to do, but he never complained outright about specific angels. Crowley followed Aziraphale to the back room, where the angel collapsed onto his sofa and drained a glass of wine he’d presumably set down to answer the door. Crowley remained standing, not sure whether their current boundaries sanctioned sharing a sofa.

“Splendid,” said Aziraphale, with a small hiccup. “What did you bring, then?” 

“Oh, er, it’s a 1928 Chateau Lafite,” said Crowley, holding up the bottle. “But aren’t you...don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Excuse me,” said Aziraphale, puffing his chest out. “Last time I checked, you were not my boss. That would be Gabriel, and he doesn’t know the first thing about wine. Or about earth.”

“Maybe you should sober up first,” Crowley suggested. “You’ll enjoy the Lafite more that way.”

“Don’t want to be sober,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head. “No use in being sober right now.” 

Crowley sat down in Aziraphale’s desk chair and set the bottle of wine on the floor. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Angel, what’s going on?”

Aziraphale stared at him, and Crowley saw his lip tremble. “They’re all dying.” 

“Who’s dying?”

Aziraphale sniffled and tried to contain himself. “All of the...the lovely people who come into my bookshop. The people in this neighborhood...”

As he trailed off, Aziraphale buried his face in his hands and began to cry. Crowley’s blood ran cold as he realized the angel was talking about the AIDS crisis. He’d heard rumblings, but of course Aziraphale would know more about it, being situated in Soho. 

“Don’t tell me it’s one of yours,” said Aziraphale, looking up suddenly, his face streaked with tears. “If you say this is Hell’s doing, I’ll...I’ll throw you out the window.”

“It’s not, I promise,” said Crowley, shaking his head. He had no doubt that the angel could chuck him right into the street.

“Heaven doesn’t give a toss,” Aziraphale continued. “I tried to explain to them, I tried to tell them these are exactly the people we should be helping. It’s not enough that their families despise them for who they are, now they’re being stricken down before they reach the age of thirty?”

Crowley clenched his fists. “Why did you expect Heaven to care?”

“What?” said Aziraphale, squinting at him. “Because this is about love. These people just want to love and be loved. If Heaven isn’t about love, what is it about?” 

“It’s about power,” said Crowley, softly. “And control. And making sure no one ever steps a toe out of line. They couldn’t give two shits about actual suffering.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a long while, and Crowley wasn’t sure how he would respond to this open criticism. The angel bit his lip and then leaned forward as his eyes overflowed once more, sobbing into his hands.

“What use am I?” he blubbered. “If I can’t help people in need, why am I here?”

Crowley felt sick. Seeing Aziraphale like this reminded him of the Black Death, and the bloody fourteenth century. In 1349, he’d found Aziraphale in a small French village, tending to the sick. At least, that’s what he intended to do, but the humans were dying too quickly. At first the angel had been shellshocked, digging graves and wiping feverish brows as though he were on auto-pilot. When Crowley managed to drag him away, he collapsed into hysterics, spouting nonsense about how useless he was. It took several years for him to return to his old self; Crowley didn’t think he could bear to see the angel that broken again. 

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “You want to help, it’s those bastards who won’t let you. Can’t you...have you tried healing anyone?”

“I can’t,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head miserably. “I can’t not do what I’m told. I mean I _physically_ cannot. Gabriel has forbidden me from intervening.”

Crowley couldn’t suppress a shudder; he wondered if Aziraphale’s inability to disobey was anything like his physical imperative to kneel before Satan. It didn’t matter how cool or disaffected he was trying to appear, if the big guy walked in, his legs had a mind of their own. 

“Bastards,” he growled and stood up from the chair. He paced around the room, wishing there was something he could throw. But if he laid a hand on any of Aziraphale’s books, he might incur some holy wrath. “Why exactly can’t you intervene? I mean, what’s their reasoning?”

Aziraphale shrugged, his face wet, his cheeks red. “They haven’t heard from God on the matter, so they can’t direct me to do anything.”

“Have they _ever_ heard from God about anything?”

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “I mean, I was allowed to perform those miracles for Jesus, with the loaves and fishes and whatnot. And thwarting you, of course.”

“Of course,” said Crowley, with a fake, mocking smile. “Naturally. All of that helps improve their own image. Make believe you’ve got a divine emissary and enthrall more humans to your nonsensical way of thinking. Absolute _bollocks._ Where were they when the poor bastard was being nailed to a piece of wood, eh?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Aziraphale, leaning heavily against the arm of the sofa. 

“If She doesn’t speak out at times like this, what is the bloody point?” said Crowley, ignoring the scandalized look the angel gave him. “What is the point of Her if She’s just going to let this shit happen?”

“Oh, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, in a hushed voice. “We mustn’t say things like that.”

“I can say them,” said Crowley. “I’m fallen, remember? I can say whatever the hell I want. That’s how I got here in the first place.”

Aziraphale glanced toward the center of the shop, and then back at Crowley. His lips pressed together in a prim line, he gave the demon an almost imperceptible nod, as though to say he should keep going.

“What could be the point of letting these people die?” said Crowley. “How could that possibly fit into the great plan? For that matter, how did any of those horrible, disgusting wars fit into the great plan, eh? I mean, what good is this doctrine of being kind to your neighbor if Heaven won’t be kind to God’s creations? I mean, what exactly is my lot even fighting against?”

“The more time I spend here, the more I wonder about that,” said Aziraphale, his voice very quiet. “At some point we were influencing the humans, swaying them to our respective sides...now it just feels like an experiment. It feels like I’m living amongst lab rats, left to fend for themselves in this...this absurd environment created for them.” 

Crowley swallowed down his rage and stared at Aziraphale, taking in his tear-stained face and shaky voice. This felt dangerous, this felt like a moment in which Aziraphale could step off into an abyss and follow Crowley’s downward path. Even when they’d been dancing along the boundary of acceptable behavior, it hadn’t felt as dangerous as this. 

“I’m so tired,” said Aziraphale, rubbing at his forehead.

“You...you should sober up and get some rest,” said Crowley. 

“I don’t mean like that,” said Aziraphale. His voice wobbled, threatening another torrent of sobs. “I’ve been here for too long, I’ve seen too much...too much suffering.” 

Crowley stared at him, searching for words of encouragement only to find that he felt the same way. Deep below his sarcasm and mischievous temptations, at the blackened core of his being, he felt like this all the time. Usually, when he was feeling it particularly acutely, he would visit Aziraphale. Now it was the angel expressing these doubts and feelings of weariness. Crowley wasn’t sure where to go from here. 

“There are...good things about the world,” he said, venturing into unknown territory. “You’ve got your creature comforts, obviously. But think about the doctors who are trying to help these young men, right? And there are people out there who do care, and who are trying their damndest to get other people to care, too. Maybe...maybe that’s what they need right now. Maybe divine intervention wouldn’t be helpful.” 

“I rather think it would, my dear,” said Aziraphale, scoffing at him. “One big lightning bolt of healing power and this could all be over. She could do it if...if She wanted to.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Crowley, grasping for more straws and finding bugger all. “But heigh-ho, ineffability -- am I right?”

“Oh, sod ineffability,” said Aziraphale. “Sod it straight to hell!”

And then the angel dissolved into tears again, his shoulders hunched and shaking with sobs. _Fuck it,_ Crowley thought, and he sat down beside him on the sofa. As soon as he opened his arms, Aziraphale was there, leaning into his embrace. He pressed his face against Crowley’s chest, and Crowley shifted closer so he could hold him properly. They’d never done this, they’d never sat together like this for comfort. Crowley wrapped his arms tightly around the sobbing angel and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

They sat there for a long time, long after Aziraphale’s sobs had subsided and his breathing had calmed. Crowley’s hand strayed to the angel’s hair, stroking it gently as Aziraphale rested against him. He glanced around the back room, taking it all in after being away for so long. A slim volume on Aziraphale’s desk looked vaguely familiar, and Crowley stared at it until the title came into focus. It was _Candide,_ the very edition Aziraphale had shown him all those years ago. A sprig of purple flowers stuck out between the pages, and Crowley realized with a jolt that they were the flowers he’d brought to the shop. Aziraphale had kept them all this time, for nearly two centuries. 

Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale and fought back tears of his own. He couldn't help but feel this was at least partly his fault. He'd stayed away, thinking the angel didn't want to see him. But what if he'd needed his support and hadn't known how to reach out? Crowley had abandoned him, but he wouldn't let that happen again. 

“Hey,” he said, squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder gently. "Maybe we can make the rounds at some hospitals. We may not be able to heal anyone, but...well, we can give support in a human sort of way."

Aziraphale pulled back enough to look up at him. "I'd like that. We could go together?"

"Yes,” said Crowley. “Together."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**5 Hours and 48 Minutes to the End of the World**

He’d had eleven years to say something. For eleven years, he’d known something like this might happen. Everything was coming to a head, and he should have taken one of those moments when they were alone to fucking _say something,_ anything. Hell, forget the past eleven years, he should have said something when the angel had opened this bookshop, which was now crumbling to bits around him. He should have done something more when they’d been here after escaping a Nazi bomb. He’d had many opportunities, and he had only himself to blame for passing up each one with a cheery wave as it flew by. 

“Aziraphale!” he shouted again, though he knew it would do no good. Something was missing, at the very back of his brain. He’d always been able to sense the angel, zero in on his earthly presence, and now there was nothing. 

Crowley stared around the shop, at the wild orange flames engulfing everything that Aziraphale held dear. There was nothing he could do. Surely the humans would notice if an enormous raincloud appeared above the shop. Even if he was able to douse the fire, what would he do then? What came next? What else was there to _do_? 

As he turned to search the back room, just in case, a jet of water blasted through the window and hit him squarely in the chest. Crowley fell backward, hitting the floor hard enough to knock the breath from him. He lay there, body gasping in air that he didn’t really need, and the full weight of it all sunk into him. The roof might cave in and crush him where he lay, and that would not be as heavy as the realization that Aziraphale was no longer here, would likely never be here again. 

With a groan, Crowley heaved himself up and looked around the shop again. “You’ve gone. Somebody killed my best friend!”

The words only drove the dagger deeper into his back. Every time he’d called Aziraphale his friend it was in front of humans. He’d said it to allay their suspicions, to create a cover story. He didn’t think he’d ever said the words to Aziraphale, the only one he should have told. For all they’d talked about over the millennia, they’d never really said much. At least, they hadn’t said the things that mattered. Those things, those hidden things, that burned at Crowley’s core threatened to explode from him now. If all was lost, if Aziraphale was gone and the end was truly coming, why shouldn’t he say them out loud? 

But the words would feel hollow now, spoken into the ether for a lark. They would only have weight if Aziraphale were there to hear them, and that wasn’t going to happen now. 

Crowley felt hot and damp, his hair plastered to his forehead with water and sweat. His clothes were singed, he was sure of it, but the fire wouldn’t do him any real damage. Having your new demonic being forged in a lake of sulphur was quite the experience. After that, any ordinary fire rather paled in comparison. He was tired, more tired than he’d ever been, and he felt finished. This felt like the end of so many things, and he wished it were the end of him. 

“Bastards!” he shouted, voice hoarse from the smoke swirling around him. “All of you!”

Upstairs, downstairs, and everyone in between -- he hated them all. If it weren’t for their stupid, useless war, he wouldn’t be sitting here completely alone. If it weren’t for their ridiculous rules, he would have said all of those important things to Aziraphale long ago, and they wouldn’t have had to pretend.

There was a book lying near him, one of the angel’s sily books of prophecy. Something about the cover seemed familiar, so Crowley picked it up and stared down at the lettering. Then a thought occurred to him and he glanced toward Aziraphale’s office, wondering if he might be able to find that edition of _Candide._ Maybe there’d been one last miracle and the book was intact, with those old blooms pressed between its vellum pages. 

He could have looked, but it was clear from his spot on the floor that nothing was going to survive the fire. Aziraphale’s desk and beloved chair were dancing with flames, and for a moment Crowley imagined the angel himself sitting there amidst the destruction. His body shook with fear, a true fear he hadn’t felt for a very long time, and he scrambled to his feet. There was nothing more for him to do here; he had to get out. 

After that, everything was a blur. As he walked back to his car, the firefighters tried to stop him and ask if he was all right. He ignored them and started up the car, wanting to get as far away from the flames and smoke as he could. But as he began to drive, he realized the burnt smell was coming from him, and it was trapped inside the Bentley. Fitting, he thought, that this reminder of Aziraphale’s disappearance should also remind him of his own burnt soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Night Before the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives**

The bus arrived before he could respond. As it pulled up to the bench where they were sitting, Crowley’s declaration that neither of them had a side any longer hung in the air. Aziraphale supposed he was right, given the events of the day, but it was rather a big thing to take in after living one way for so long. The mere thought of it seemed to open so many doors he’d thought would be shut forever, doors he’d only peeked behind before. He’d tried to stay away from those doors, but they kept calling him back, tempting him back. Now here was the ultimate temptation to cast it all off, and of course it came from Crowley. 

The bookshop was gone -- something he could hardly believe. But it must be true, or else Crowley wouldn’t have sounded so broken when he told him about it. Centuries of accumulated books had gone up in smoke, apparently, as soon as he’d been whisked up to Heaven. It felt like divine retribution, as though they’d just discovered his attachment to all those stories and wanted to wrench them from him in the most terrible way possible. As if they wanted to take from him the one place where he’d felt safe, the place where he’d spent time with Crowley. 

Crowley stood up first, hands on his knees, just barely suppressing a groan. Aziraphale followed him onto the bus, nodding and smiling at the driver out of habit as his thoughts tumbled over themselves. He’d never been to Crowley’s flat; they’d always met up at the bookshop. He had no idea what to expect or how it might feel to see the demon’s inner sanctum. There must be a reason, he thought, why Crowley had never invited Aziraphale to visit before. 

Crowley took a seat by the window, sighing heavily as he dropped down. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what had happened on the way to the airbase, but it had clearly been tiring. The Bentley had been on fire, so there must have been some sort of struggle. Perhaps Crowley had been set upon by demons, perhaps he’d had to fight them off. The demon’s clothes were singed, his face was pale beneath the soot and sweat, and his red hair was a disordered jumble. When he took the seat beside him, Aziraphale reached for his hand, and Crowley looked up in surprise. 

“It’s been rather a long day,” said Aziraphale, pressing his fingers between Crowley’s, holding tightly to him. Crowley simply nodded in response and let out a long whoosh of breath. “You should rest, because I’m not sure what comes next.”

Without another word, Crowley tilted sideways, leaning heavily against Aziraphale, who shifted to make it clear that his shoulder was available. Crowley took the hint and let his head fall there, his damp hair pressed against Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale glanced down, wanting to kiss the sooty forehead but not wanting to startle the demon. He thought about how they’d stood on either side of Adam, how it had seemed natural to be on their own side against the others. He thought about all the times he’d wanted to tell Crowley about something rather than write a report to Gabriel. He thought about standing in the rubble of a London church, sitting side by side in the Bentley, being held on the sofa in his shop. 

Though the apocalypse was not happening, it didn’t feel like they were safe yet. Surely their former sides would be angry with them over their role in the whole affair. Surely there would be consequences for what they’d done, for how they’d joined forces. There was no way they’d be able to have this, to go rogue so fully. But the warmth of Crowley’s hand beneath his own made Aziraphale resolve to fight whatever consequences came their way.

He would have gladly spent the entire evening on that bus, with the sound of Crowley’s slow and even breathing in his ear. But eventually they reached their destination, outside a tall building in Mayfair, and Aziraphale had to wake him. 

“Hey,” said Crowley, jolting awake. “What’s up?”

“We’ve arrived, that’s all,” said Aziraphale, gently. “Shall we go up?” 

Crowley blinked and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yes, of course. Yes.” 

As they made their way inside and stood together in the lift, Aziraphale sensed that Crowley was just barely keeping himself upright. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders stooped forward as though to counteract the urge to fall back. Once they were inside Crowley’s flat, a cold and cavernous space, the demon’s body sagged with fatigue. He turned to Aziraphale and pulled his glasses off his face, staring at him with something like disbelief. 

“All right?” said Aziraphale, though he knew the answer. 

Crowley shook his head but said nothing. He seemed to be taking in every inch of Aziraphale, staring intently at his face, gaze sweeping down the length of his body. Aziraphale wondered what he was thinking, if he was considering what waited for them, or if he was unable to think that far ahead. 

“Can I…?” Crowley asked, arms moving toward him and then falling back to his sides.

“I wish you would,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley stepped forward and pulled Aziraphale against him so desperately that the angel stumbled a bit. This frantic gesture, the way that Crowley’s hands clutched at his back, made tears spring to Aziraphale’s eyes. He curled his arms around Crowley’s shaking form, pressed his cheek to Crowley’s, listened to his halting breaths.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he said, struggling to keep the wobble from his voice. 

“You were gone,” Crowley choked out. “I couldn’t sense you, you were just _gone._ ”

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the tears, felt them catch in his lashes. He held Crowley more tightly, turning to press his lips against the snake tattoo at his ear. “I’m here. I’m here now, I’m so sorry I left you.”

“I…the bookshop,” Crowley sobbed. “I wanted to do something, I wanted to save it for you. But what’s the point of it if you’re not there?”

Aziraphale bit his lip, holding back a whimper. This was it, he supposed, they were dancing along the edge of things he’d wanted to say for so long. Would Crowley cross the line first, or should he? “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” said Crowley, softly. He ran his hands along Aziraphale’s back, as though he was testing to see if the angel really was solid. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Yes, this was it. If not now, they might never have another chance. They may no longer have sides, but those sides weren't finished with them yet. If this was their only moment together, Aziraphale knew he had to seize it.

“Listen,” he said, one hand soothing along Crowley’s spine. “I don’t know what they’ll do to us, and I don’t know how long we’ve got. But before anything happens…”

Crowley pulled back, his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Don’t say it. Please.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I need to. I need one of us to acknowledge this.” 

“Then let it be me,” said Crowley. “If...if you were to say something now, right here at the end, and it somehow compromised you, I couldn’t handle that. All right? So, just...I love you. I have for a long time. There it is.” 

Aziraphale knew it was absurd, but he was convinced his heart expanded within his chest. The sentiment was something he knew from rescues, small gestures, and countless lunches. But hearing the words gave that feeling a whole new weight. He felt breathless, as though his heart was crowding out all his other human bits, making it difficult to take in air. The silence was threatening to swallow them both, so Aziraphale said the first thing that came into his mind. 

“For how long?”

“What?”

“For how long, Crowley?”

“Forever,” said Crowley. “Since the beginning.” 

Now Aziraphale really couldn’t breathe. It was just as he’d hoped and feared -- they had been entangled forever but unable to do anything about it. It almost would have been better if Aziraphale had been pining away on his own. It broke his heart to know they were both twisting themselves into knots, biting back words, taking the smallest indulgences wherever they could. Crowley didn’t deserve any of that; no matter how he might protest, he lead with his heart, and Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how he must have suffered. 

“Crowley, I --”

“Please don’t say anything,” said Crowley, shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry, but I must,” said Aziraphale. “I...I won’t return the sentiment if you don’t want me to, at least not in those words. I’ll only say this -- do you remember Paris, all those years ago? What happened there had nothing to do with research into human vices.”

Crowley stared at him, lips parted like an invitation. “I always wondered.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I had to pretend about a lot of things, my dear. I had to justify them to myself and create some sort of plausible deniability, I’m sure you understand. Actually, no, I’m not asking you to understand. I’m sure it’s been positively dreadful, having to wonder about things like that. I wish I could explain more, but you’ve made it rather difficult.”

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” said Crowley. “Least of all because of me.” 

“The feeling is mutual,” said Aziraphale. “All...all the feelings in this room are mutual. Does that clear it up?”

Crowley smiled slightly and reached out to wipe the tears from Aziraphale’s face. “I understand, angel.”

Aziraphale gazed into bright eyes that had spent far too much time hidden away. “I do wish I could say more, my dear. You deserve to hear it, after all this time.”

Crowley’s smile disappeared and he dropped his gaze. “All we can do is make sure we have more time. Let’s get through this, and you can tell me later.”

Aziraphale nodded, trying to believe him. “Later.”

“That’s right,” said Crowley. “Now, come on, let’s talk about this prophecy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives**

Aziraphale left the Ritz feeling giddy, as though all avenues lay before him unimpeded. But he knew which avenue he wanted to take -- it was the one he’d been lingering along for millennia. So once they were safely inside the Bentley, he reached for Crowley’s hand and held it tightly, more decisive than he’d been on the bus. Crowley froze for a moment but recovered quickly, entwining their fingers and deftly driving with one hand. For once, Aziraphale didn’t notice how fast Crowley was driving, or how reckless he was being with the rules of the road. All that mattered in that moment was the mesh of their fingers, and Crowley’s clenched jaw in profile. 

Inside the shop, Aziraphale locked up with a swift gesture and crowded Crowley against the door. The demon let out a shaky breath, throat bobbing with a gulp. Aziraphale leaned closer, resolving not to waste any more time, and kissed him. It was deeper and more considered than before, and with much less hesitancy. It was a kiss that reveled in their newfound freedom while acknowledging all that had come before. It was perfect. 

Eventually they broke apart, and Aziraphale reached up to remove Crowley’s sunglasses. He’d wanted to see the demon’s eyes when they’d toasted at the Ritz, but this was much better. Crowley stared at him, so open and vulnerable without the shades that hid his emotions. In the quiet of his newly restored bookshop, Aziraphale gazed into Crowley’s bright eyes and realized he was free to speak his feelings now. 

“I love you,” he said, and his giddiness grew as he watched a tender expression of awe dawn on Crowley’s face. “I have loved you since you agreed to try oysters in ancient Rome. But when you made _Hamlet_ an eternal success, I became obsessed. I hoped you’d come save me in Paris, and I was overjoyed when you did.” 

“I nearly didn’t,” said Crowley, his voice strained as though he was trying not to cry. “It was so painful to see you, every time. But I knew you were in danger.”

“How?” Aziraphale asked; it was something he’d wondered about for ages. “How did you know I was in danger? How did you know where I was?”

Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got this...kind of a sense? I don’t know why or how, but I could always sense you. That’s how I knew, when the bookshop was burning, that you were really...gone.” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Aziraphale. He felt he’d never be able to apologize enough for that. 

“During the war,” said Crowley, ignoring the apology. “It's true that I was working for the SOE, but I found my way to that church because I could sense you there, and I knew something was wrong. I’d been avoiding you for decades.”

Aziraphale nodded, “I know, because I wouldn’t give you the holy water.”

“It was more than that,” said Crowley, biting his lip. “You used that word… _fraternizing._ I thought you were done with me. I figured it would be best to leave you alone.”

“But you still came to the church,” said Aziraphale. There was that breathless feeling again, the one that had ripped him open the night before. 

“Of course,” said Crowley, a bit sadly. “Of course I came to you, angel.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pressed a sob to his lips. Crowley’s fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, hauling him closer and closer, until there was no space between them at all. But it still wasn’t close enough; Aziraphale’s chest ached with adoration for Crowley, and it made him want to inch his way beneath the demon’s ribs and cup his hands around his heart. Everything he’d held back for millennia came pouring out of him and into his kiss. He hoped that Crowley could feel it, that he knew the extent of his love. 

“I was so happy to see you then,” said Aziraphale, tears streaming down his face. “You looked ever so dashing in that suit, my dear.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, angel,” said Crowley, leaning in to kiss him again. 

“I gave you the holy water to keep you safe, you know,” said Aziraphale. “At least, I hoped it would keep you safe.” 

Crowley smiled and chuckled a bit through his own tears. “It did, actually. I used it to melt Ligur into demon mush.”

“Oh, my,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “That must have made quite a mess.” 

Crowley chuckled more loudly this time. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Aziraphale laughed and miracled up a handkerchief to dab at Crowley’s damp cheeks. The demon blushed, and it was the most lovely sight Aziraphale had ever seen. “You know, I never thought of what we did as merely _fraternizing._ I said that because I was afraid, but nothing can excuse it.”

“It’s fine, angel, really,” said Crowley. “Do you remember when I came to see you during the AIDS crisis?”

Aziraphale pulled his hand back and busied himself with folding up the handkerchief. The reminder of that terrible time was like a dark cloud passing over his brain. But he nodded, “Yes, of course. You brought me great comfort that night.” 

“That was when I realized you felt something for me,” said Crowley. “I...I saw that book, _Candide_ , on your desk that night.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, softly. “Oh, dear. That must have burned in here along with everything else.”

“I’m sure it’s back now,” said Crowley. “It must be, if Adam restored everything. The point is -- angel, you saved the flowers I brought you.”

“Well, of course, dear boy.” said Aziraphale. “I was so touched that you’d come to see my new shop.”

“That’s how I knew, when I saw that you’d saved something from me for that long.” 

Aziraphale smiled at him. “The kiss during the war didn’t convince you?” 

“It was great,” said Crowley. “But I thought it was just a thank you. You were grateful for the flowers, so you kissed me. You were grateful that I’d saved your books, so you kissed me.”

“My dear,” said Aziraphale. “I was grateful, but that was just a convenient excuse. I wanted to kiss you every time I saw you.”

Crowley nodded as new tears fell down his cheeks. Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him tenderly, and Crowley threaded his fingers into the angel’s hair to hold him close. It felt as though hours passed as they stood there, pressed together in very different circumstances than before. Gratitude was still present in these kisses, but it was a gratitude for the continued existence of one another, for the moment itself. It was a gratitude that could so easily morph into hope for more moments just like this one, and then into a belief that those moments would come along. 

Eventually, they made their way into Aziraphale’s office, and Aziraphale lowered his demon gently onto the faithful old sofa. He straddled his hips, back bent as he leaned down to kiss him deeply, as though to protect his thin frame. As Crowley’s fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat, it occurred to Aziraphale that they’d never even got their clothes off in Paris. He’d seen Crowley naked before, quite a long time ago, but he thrilled now at the chance to see him again. 

“I imagine this might be a bit better than an alleyway in Paris,” he said, gasping against Crowley’s jaw as the demon pressed his hand to the growing bulge in his trousers.

Crowley smiled at him. “Yeah. Just a bit.” 

It was far, far better than an alleyway in Paris.

* * * *

**One Week Later**

Aziraphale had never dared to daydream about sharing the shop with Crowley, but if he had allowed himself that indulgence, he would have imagined something very much like this. The demon was sprawled across the sofa, one foot planted firmly on the floor. He was wearing nothing but a tartan blanket, and Aziraphale had thoroughly ravished him a mere thirty minutes earlier. Crowley was an absolute vision, with his skin flushed slightly pink and his hair a rumpled mess. He was making it very difficult for Aziraphale to focus on his book, but Aziraphale wasn’t exactly complaining. 

After the apocalypse didn’t happen, after the Ritz and everything they’d discussed, Crowley had spent the night. Crowley, who enjoyed sleeping, had nestled in close to Aziraphale and snored softly for most of the night. Aziraphale, who had never been keen on sleep, spent most of the night holding Crowley and gently crying happy tears. In the morning, he’d told Crowley that he could stay at the shop for as long as he liked.

“Yeah, probably for the best,” said Crowley. “You know, in case anything happens. Better to present a united front.” 

Aziraphale simply nodded and continued making cocoa. Then Crowley appeared at his side and said, “No, fuck that. I’m staying because I love you and want to be with you.” 

This had touched Aziraphale so deeply that he’d abandoned his cocoa. The ‘closed’ sign on his shop door remained resolutely in place for several more days. He had wasted so much time, and now he wanted to make up for it all.

It did not yet feel normal to have Crowley at the shop with him; it still felt like a special treat, like something he didn’t truly deserve. Looking back, he was surprised at how little time he and Crowley had actually spent together. Every time they met up through the ages was special, but they hadn’t spent sustained periods together. It was a joy to be making cocoa and feel Crowley’s arms around his middle, to be reading and suddenly look up to find Crowley gazing at him, or to have Crowley in his rarely used bed. Every bit of it made him feel exceedingly lucky. 

As soon as Aziraphale managed to tear his eyes away from Crowley and return to his book, the demon stirred. Aziraphale glanced up again and found that Crowley was frowning, shifting restlessly in his sleep. After a moment or two, he sat bolt upright and gasped, wrenching himself awake. Aziraphale, stunned by this, hurried to his side. 

“Are you all right, my dear?” he said, laying one hand gently on Crowley’s back. 

Crowley looked up at him, his brow furrowed. “Not really, no. I just...it was just a dream, it was nothing.” 

“Oh, do demons dream?” Aziraphale asked. “I thought that was a quirk of the human mind.”

“Unfortunately not,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale had a feeling that some terrible stories lay behind Crowley’s dour tone. “What did you dream about? I mean, if you don’t mind sharing. You don’t have to.” 

Crowley sighed and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. “I dreamed about the fire.” 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled him into a hug and kissed his temple. 

"It was so real,” said Crowley, still trying to get his breath back. 

“The shop is still here, I assure you,” said Aziraphale. “And you and I are tickety boo. In fact, we’re far more than that. I mean, that is...do you concur?”

Crowley turned and smiled at him. “Yes, angel. We’re far more than _tickety boo._ ”

The nightmare was forgotten for the moment, and they actually left the bookshop that evening to dine at Aziraphale’s favorite sushi restaurant. But later, when Crowley went up to bed, and Aziraphale snuggled in beside him, it happened again. Crowley had only been asleep for fifteen minutes or so when he began murmuring something and moving back against Aziraphale. When Crowley flung an arm out, just barely missing his head, Aziraphale shook him awake. 

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed, turning so he could curl against Aziraphale’s chest. 

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, rubbing the demon’s back gently. “I hope it will pass.” 

“You don’t know how awful it was,” said Crowley, his voice small and soft. “Everything was on fire, _everything._ Even if you’d been here, you’d have been dead. Discorporated, whatever. I was...the thought of just going on without you...angel, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” 

“I know. I know, my love,” said Aziraphale. “I’m so, so sorry you had to experience that.” 

Crowley didn’t need to sleep, not really. It wasn’t as though his body or brain would become exhausted if he stayed awake for too long. But he did find sleep refreshing, and he explained to Aziraphale that it helped him keep sharp, focused. Once the nightmares began, Crowley stayed awake at night with Aziraphale, pressed close against him as the angel read. During the day he puttered around the shop and spent long stretches of time peering out the front windows, seemingly waiting for something. Aziraphale began to worry. 

One night, Aziraphale was reading in bed when he realized Crowley had fallen asleep, his head leaning heavily against the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief and watched him breathing deeply, calmly, for quite some time. When he was sure that Crowley was sleeping peacefully, he carefully slid off the bed and crept to the kitchen to make some cocoa. By the time he returned with his warm mug, Crowley was awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head buried in his hands. He was crying softly, and the sound caused a sharp pain in the center of Aziraphale’s chest. 

“What can I do?” he asked, sitting down beside him. “I want to help you, but I’m not sure how.” 

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath and said, “I think being here is making it worse.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, clutching his mug of cocoa. “Oh, I see.”

Aziraphale felt foolish for not considering this right away. Of course spending all his time at the scene of the fire was causing Crowley to relive the moment. The bookshop was Aziraphale’s sanctuary, and it had been for the better part of two centuries. But he had known and loved Crowley for far longer than that, and the choice was easy to make. 

“Well,” he said. “We shall have to go someplace else.”

Crowley looked up at him, surprised. “I -- what?” 

“We’ll go someplace else,” Aziraphale repeated. “I can’t bear to see you suffering like this.”

“But...your bookshop.”

“It will be here when we return,” said Aziraphale. “Even if we don’t return for a while, I can cast a miracle on the place to ensure that no one disturbs it. We can take the books with us.” 

A fond smile spread across Crowley’s face, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You...are you sure?”

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. He reached out to push Crowley’s sweaty hair back from his forehead. “Of course.” 

Crowley leaned in to kiss him, and Aziraphale’s angelic senses were flooded with a positively absurd amount of love. It was pouring off the demon in waves, and though it was surprising, it also felt familiar. Aziraphale recognized it from Paris, St. James’ Park, his own bookshop. It had surrounded him all along, but somehow he’d missed it.

“I love you,” he breathed, as they broke apart and he realized he was crying. 

“What’s wrong?” said Crowley, brushing a thumb against his cheek. 

“Nothing at all, my dear. I feel your love,” he said, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s. “I suppose I’ve always felt it, only I’ve been too foolish to realize it.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, a blush creeping up his face. “I was never sure if you could feel it or not. I hoped it would just sort of...blend into the background.”

“Yes, and luckily I’m a complete buffoon who stumbles around with his eyes half closed,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head at himself. 

“You’re really not,” said Crowley. He curled his hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, fingers rubbing gently there. “You have an awful lot of faith in humanity. You probably just thought it was coming from them.”

Aziraphale laughed a bit and wiped at his eyes. “I did, rather.” 

Crowley looked at him, and his expression was so tender and open that it made Aziraphale’s heart ache. That look combined with Crowley’s love was so powerful that Aziraphale was surprised it didn’t send him into some sort of angelic fit. 

“Now, you’re gonna laugh at this,” said Crowley. “But how would you feel about sort of a...a cottage or something? In the countryside?”

“A cottage?” said Aziraphale. “My dear, that sounds delightful. Shall we start tomorrow?”

Crowley grabbed his mobile from the nightstand. “Why wait?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**South Downs, 2020**

The plants were doing well, but Crowley wasn’t about to tell them that. Aziraphale had popped into the greenhouse when Crowley was first organizing things, and he was sure the angel had said something to the spider plant, who then spread it to the others. So Crowley had been keeping up a very stern approach since then. The plants were no doubt feeling quite good about themselves, what with the new luxurious greenhouse and all, so he had to remind them with whom they were dealing. 

“That angel is not the boss of you,” he said, pumping the nozzle on his mister menacingly. “I am, and I always will be. And I don’t go in for all that positive reinforcement. So we love him, but he’s not going to be in here whispering sweet nothings to you. You’re stuck with _me._ Got it? Good.” 

Crowley dropped the plant mister as though it were a microphone and swaggered toward the door. With his hand on the knob he turned back and glared at them all until they were trembling, and then he left, grinning to himself. 

The walk back to the cottage was just long enough to remind Crowley that they’d purchased _land._ He and Aziraphale had agreed that it was time to spread out and stretch their wings, metaphorically speaking. The back garden of their cottage lead into a vast field, and when you walked to the very edge of the property you could see the sea. Crowley liked to walk out there in the dead of night and stare up at the stars he’d helped create. It was even nicer when Aziraphale came with him and they spent hours huddled together on a picnic blanket, pointing up at distant planets and balls of gas.

Up near the house they’d installed a gazebo that only slightly resembled the bandstand in St. James’ Park. There were two garden lounge chairs in the gazebo, but Crowley usually squeezed in beside Aziraphale rather than sit on his own. As he neared the gazebo now, Crowley could see Aziraphale reading, with a glass of wine in his free hand. 

“I wish you wouldn’t terrorize them like that,” said Aziraphale, without even looking up from his book. 

“How do you know what I get up to in my greenhouse?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale shut his book, leaving one finger between the pages to hold his place. “You’re grinning like a cat who’s caught a mouse, it’s not difficult to connect the dots.” 

“Well, we agreed that I’d be raising them. You have no say in their upbringing.”

“We agreed no such thing,” Aziraphale protested, though not very strongly. “I recall being very impolitely shooed away from the greenhouse, but I don’t believe there was any further discussion of the matter.” 

“Listen,” said Crowley, stepping up into the gazebo. “If you stay away from my greenhouse, I’ll restrain the very strong urge I have to categorize your library properly.” 

Aziraphale frowned at him, and Crowley could tell that he wanted to argue the point. He was weighing his feelings about horticultural cruelty against his desire to maintain the haphazard nature of his precious tomes. Eventually he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, fine.” 

“There we are. Compromise,” said Crowley. He strode up to Aziraphale’s lounge chair and wedged himself into the available space until the angel shifted to one side, subtly enlarging the chair with a miracle. “The cornerstone of any good relationship.” 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, somewhat doubtful. “Plans for dinner?”

“Hadn’t thought about it,” said Crowley. “Any particular mood this evening? Any cravings I could help satisfy?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a lascivious smile playing about his lips. It had been nearly a year, and Crowley was not yet tired of finding new ways to elicit that response. Double entendres were a specialty of his old team, after all, and Aziraphale was an admirer of the well-turned phrase. It was just another way in which they matched up perfectly. 

“Now that you mention it,” said Aziraphale, leaning in to him, their faces mere inches apart. “I’ve been dreaming of braised duck breast with a red wine sauce.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Crowley, smirking and pushing him back. 

“Or perhaps garlic-crusted lamb,” he continued, unabashed. “Cornish hens? Stuffed with onions and sage?”

“I was actually thinking of something more like this,” said Crowley. Now he leaned in, one hand coming up to thread into Aziraphale’s downy hair and pull him into a kiss. Each time they came together, Crowley was struck with the same thought -- they were able to do this, and no one seemed to be watching them. 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed as they broke apart. “An excellent proposal, my dear.”

“Then shall we?” said Crowley, moving in again. Aziraphale tipped his head back and let himself be kissed. Crowley moaned softly and licked into his mouth; the way Aziraphale opened up to him now never failed to light a fire in his belly. 

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale replied, slightly breathless. “But afterwards, lamb?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes but couldn’t muster up any more annoyance than that. He’d taken up cooking when he’d had to make an example of a basil plant he’d found slacking off. The plucked leaves had gone into a pesto sauce that made Aziraphale positively orgasmic at the dinner table that evening, and thus Crowley’s love of cooking had been unlocked. He was beyond flattered that Aziraphale, the epicurean angel, enjoyed his meager efforts in the kitchen. He’d spent years watching Aziraphale moan over food, and now he was the one making that food. 

“Yes, lamb,” said Crowley. “I promise you garlic-crusted lamb. Do I need to bribe you with food to get you into bed? Has it come to this?” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Aziraphale. “You know you’re still the main course.” 

Now it was Crowley’s turn to go all wide-eyed and smirky. Without another word, he snapped his fingers and sent them both to the bedroom. As soon as they landed on the big, soft, four-poster bed, Aziraphale pressed Crowley down against the tartan duvet and set about devouring him. Crowley had conceded to the tartan duvet, though he was the one doing all the sleeping, and that was a testament to just how far gone he was. It was hard to argue with an angel, he’d found, especially one who was so skilled at taking him apart piece by piece. Crowley shivered as Aziraphale’s hands crept beneath his t-shirt, fingers trailing along his ribs. 

“Positively delicious,” said Aziraphale, as he kissed his way up the column of Crowley’s throat, lingering just below his left ear. 

“Better than… _hng_...better than lamb?” said Crowley, teasingly. 

“Oh, much,” said Aziraphale. “You certainly never fail to fill me up.”

“Angel,” Crowley choked. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. “Are you gonna tease me all evening? Are there actions that go along with these saucy words?” 

Aziraphale pulled back to look at him, and Crowley couldn’t hold back a grin. “Do you doubt my ability to follow through on promises?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, holding his gaze. “Prove me wrong?”

With that subtle challenge, they were off to the races. Aziraphale slid his fingers into Crowley’s hair, which had grown longer during their time in the country, and kissed him deeply. Crowley made himself heavy against the bed, letting Aziraphale take the reins and devour him. It was such a pleasure to be kissed by Aziraphale, especially when you were no longer worried about possible consequences. All those times before, even back in Paris, Crowley had had to pull back on his own pleasure, telling himself that he wasn’t allowed to such things. Now he let all of those safeguards fall away and threw himself headlong into being loved by Aziraphale. The only thing more joyous was loving Aziraphale in return. 

Crowley lifted his arms so Aziraphale could pull off his t-shirt and toss it away. He unbuttoned Aziraphale’s linen shirt, so light and airy compared to the layers that had weighed him down for all those years. It was almost as though they’d returned to Eden, when the angel had worn only gauzy robes and his lustrous wings. Aziraphale mouthed along his jaw, only faltering slightly when Crowley’s hands slid from his belly up to his nipples. He rubbed them gently, only teasing before moving up to his shoulders to push away the shirt. Aziraphale sighed and kissed him anew, their bare chests now pressed together. 

“What do you think?” said Aziraphale, his breath hot against Crowley’s ear as he slid his hand down between their bodies. He palmed the bulge in Crowley’s trousers, providing just enough friction to make him want more. “Have I proved my intentions?”

“Not convinced,” said Crowley. “What else have you got?”

Aziraphale chuckled softly and snapped his fingers to rid Crowley of his skinny jeans. After struggling valiantly with them during their first dalliance in the bookshop, he’d told Crowley he simply couldn’t manage them. Crowley had understood, of course, and admitted that he’d never once put them on the human way. So the jeans were quickly removed, but Aziraphale enjoyed peeling away the final layer himself. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Crowley’s pants and pulled them down slowly, so slowly. He followed them, laying kisses along Crowley’s thighs, his knees, his ankles, and finally tossing the pants over his shoulder.

“Your turn,” said Crowley, doing his best to make eyes up at Aziraphale. No matter how much praise the angel heaped upon his head, he always felt a bit fragile laid out like this. 

Aziraphale knelt at the end of the bed and unfastened his trousers. He nudged them down over his hips and thighs as Crowley watched, transfixed. He wiggled out of them carefully and kicked them off the bed. 

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley breathed, reaching for Aziraphale as he crawled back up the bed, straddling Crowley’s waist and leaning down to kiss him softly. 

“No, my dear, you are,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley had heard couples have this absurd argument on the street, and it had made him want to be sick. But in moments like this, alone with Aziraphale in their cottage, there was suddenly nothing more important to him than winning the argument and convincing Aziraphale he was the beautiful one. If he could see himself, perhaps he’d still want to be sick. But that didn’t matter much when Aziraphale was kissing him, gently biting at his bottom lip, and pressing his hips down against his erection. 

“Just one problem,” said Crowley. He snapped his fingers to rid Aziraphale of his cotton undergarments and sucked in a breath when he felt the angel’s bare flesh against his own. “Mmm, there we are.”

“Delectable,” said Aziraphale, rutting against him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“May I?” said Crowley, fingers kneading the soft flesh at Aziraphale’s hips. 

Aziraphale caught his gaze, raw desire turning his bright eyes a darker shade of blue. “Oh, yes. Please...take me.” 

With a soft moan, Crowley flipped them and spread himself across Aziraphale’s body. He loved the way the angel’s curves filled up all his angles, the crest of his belly nudging against the sharp edge of Crowley’s ribcage. He cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kissed him, softly at first, gentle licks that left Aziraphale pleading for more, and then deeply, as though he could swallow up all the angel’s moans. When they broke apart, Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s and reached down to stroke him. Every inch of Aziraphale was pulled taut, straining up in search of more friction, more satisfaction. And Crowley had plans, but he gave him what he wanted, stroking faster and faster until Aziraphale was at the very edge. 

“Not yet,” Crowley breathed in his ear, relishing the soft moans coming from Aziraphale’s delicious pink lips. “Not just yet, my love.” 

Crowley snapped his fingers again to slick them with oil, and he reached down to pull Aziraphale’s right leg up, bending it at the knee. He pressed one slick finger into Aziraphale, and then two, and he crooked them just so to make his angel moan his name. He took his time, opening him gently and turning him into a puddle of goo in the process. When Aziraphale was repeating his name in a breathless whisper, Crowley knew he was ready. 

Aziraphale pulled him down into a kiss as he removed his fingers and shifted into position. The angel moaned against his lips, “Please...oh, please, Crowley.” 

“Anything, angel,” Crowley responded. “Anything for you.”

He pushed into him, and Aziraphale’s legs instantly wound around his waist, heels digging into his back and urging him on. Never one to deny the angel what he wanted, Crowley found his rhythm right away, losing himself in Aziraphale’s warmth. Beneath him Aziraphale was flushed, his eyebrows knit together in pleasure as Crowley drove into him again and again. Crowley kissed him because he could, and he wanted to, and he changed his angle slightly. 

“Right there, yes,” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, Crowley. Oh, my dear…”

This, Crowley thought. This was what he’d dreamed about on cold nights up north and lonely evenings in damp places. This was all he’d ever wanted -- to make Aziraphale feel good, to show him how much he was loved. It was why he’d offered himself up in that alleyway in Paris, even when he didn’t expect anything in return. He hadn’t served God in a very long time, and he’d never really served Satan, but he would serve Aziraphale for the rest of their days.

“Touch me,” said Aziraphale, his fingers digging into Crowley’s back. 

Crowley obliged, wrapping one hand around Aziraphale and stroking just how he liked, with a twist as his wrist moved upward. He watched Aziraphale as he touched him, transfixed by the way his mouth fell open and his breath quickened. He’d wanted this -- oh, how he’d wanted it -- when the angel cornered him against those shelves in his office. With the “all clear” sirens ringing in their ears, he’d wished he could push Aziraphale down onto his sofa and show him just how much he’d missed him all those years. And now they could, now they were making up for all that wasted time. 

“I love you,” said Aziraphale, voice strained and laced with pleasure. He twisted his fingers into the hair at the back of Crowley’s neck, and with a few more snaps of his hips Crowley came. He jerked against Aziraphale, breath coming too fast, his whole body alight with it. 

When he could think clearly again, Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale and stroked him until he went rigid, nails digging into his shoulders as he came. He kissed him through it, soaking up every tremor of his body and every moan that passed his lips. Eventually they were both boneless and blissed out, lying together as they gasped for breath. Crowley smiled and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“I love you too, angel,” he said. “I love you so much.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, holding him close as though he were protecting him. Crowley slipped out of him and miracled away the mess so they could stay like that, pressed together and lost in each other. Aziraphale was warm and soft, and Crowley was always tired after they made love. Though he’d promised to make dinner, Crowley didn’t fight too hard when he felt himself drifting off. 

When Crowley awoke an indeterminate amount of time later, he was alone in bed. The first time this had happened in the new cottage, terror had gripped him and he’d run from the room to search for Aziraphale. The angel had simply nipped out to make some cocoa, and Crowley had been quite embarrassed by his reaction. But Aziraphale had held him close and promised nothing would happen to them, that he wasn’t going anywhere. It had taken months of uneventful idyllic life for Crowley to believe this, but he no longer feared for Aziraphale’s life when the angel was out of his sight. 

Crowley miracled his skinny jeans back on his legs and pulled a slate gray thermal over his head, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. He found Aziraphale in the kitchen, dicing garlic -- dicing was one of the few cooking tasks the angel could manage. He was also quite adept at chopping vegetables, boiling water, and tasting whatever Crowley was making. 

“I popped out to the butcher’s for a rack of lamb,” he said, smiling brightly when he saw Crowley. 

“Thanks, angel,” he said, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he made his way to the sink. He’d long since given up reminding Aziraphale that he could simply miracle in any ingredients they might need. Just as he enjoyed a good book or a chocolate mousse, Aziraphale seemed to delight in the very human task of grocery shopping, so Crowley let him have his fun. 

Cooking had never really been on Crowley’s radar as a possible hobby. He’d had his plants, and he’d had Aziraphale, and that had been enough. But now there was so much bloody _time_ , and despite what Aziraphale said he couldn’t spend it all on lovemaking. Though he’d stumbled into it, Crowley soon found that cooking combined two of his favorite things -- creating something and pleasing Aziraphale. There was something in the bringing together of ingredients to form a new thing that tapped into his long-ago role painting galaxies across the sky. He didn’t eat much of what he cooked, but the act of cooking fed him in a different way. 

Sometimes Crowley wanted to cook something that required his hovering, nervous energy. Sometimes his bones felt like they might vibrate out of place and he needed to occupy himself fully. He would slip in some earbuds, listen to something with searing guitar, and micromanage a meal down to its finest details. When he was finished, he would feel wrung out in the best possible way, and his reward would be watching Aziraphale eat the fruits of his labor. But those nervous, vibrating days were becoming less frequent. He didn’t mind a slow meal now and again, something that could get on without him. 

As the lamb roasted in the oven, Crowley curled up on the sofa with Aziraphale. The angel had on his spectacles, and he was already engrossed in his book when Crowley arrived. But he lifted one arm to let Crowley press up against him, head resting on his shoulder. It was here that Crowley was always hit with a bone-deep sense of gratitude and disbelief. Being able to touch Aziraphale and kiss him felt like a gift, of course. But this was something far more precious, to sit with him like this, in a quiet room, with no fear between them. Here he felt something he’d never experienced before -- complete and total contentment. 

Crowley wasn’t aware of dozing off, but suddenly he felt someone nudging him gently. He opened his eyes and found Aziraphale gazing down at him, a small smile on his face. 

“Had a cat nap,” said Crowley, rubbing his eyes. 

“Yes, I noticed,” said Aziraphale. He leaned down to kiss him softly. “I didn’t want to wake you, but the timer on the oven just went off. I thought you’d want to have a look.” 

In an instant, Crowley was up off the couch, hurrying into the kitchen, happy to find that nothing had burnt. While the lamb was resting, he whipped up a quick risotto and chose a wine for them to drink. Just as he was finishing up he called Aziraphale in, and the angel set the table and poured the wine. It was just a normal evening, it was just two man-shaped beings eating dinner together, but it made Crowley’s heart soar. 

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, as he took his first bite of the lamb. “This is exquisite, thank you so much.”

Crowley smirked at him and sipped his wine. “Thank the oven. It did most of the work.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Aziraphale. “An oven couldn’t pour this much love into a dish. Besides, the oven had nothing to do with this divine risotto.”

“All right, all right,” said Crowley, waving him off. He was still not overly fond of eating, just as Aziraphale could take or leave sleeping, but he did like to sample his work. He ate a small portion of the lamb and risotto and decided it was pretty good for a bloke in a regular old kitchen. It certainly wasn’t as good as some of the food they’d eaten at the Ritz, but Aziraphale thought otherwise. 

“So succulent,” he said, practically moaning over the lamb. “And you’ve achieved a wonderful crust here. That really is rather delicious, I wonder who put that together.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and raised his glass. “My compliments to the sous-chef.”

Aziraphale gave him a cheeky smile and popped another piece of lamb into his mouth. 

After dinner, Aziraphale retired to the little snug at the back of the house, which he’d transformed into his library. The room was rather larger than it had been when they’d first arrived at the cottage. The angel kept remembering books he needed and transferring them from the shop in London, and the room filled up quite quickly. It was his sanctuary, a little nest for himself, his corollary to Crowley’s greenhouse. He spent time there each day, reading amongst his books, but only if Crowley was otherwise occupied.

Crowley cleaned up the kitchen the human way, taking care to wrap up the leftover lamb, which he knew Aziraphale would nibble at in the middle of the night. Then he piled a plate with some Millionaire’s Shortbread he’d made earlier in the week and miracled up a cup of cocoa. Cocoa was the one thing he couldn’t seem to make to Aziraphale’s exacting standards. He carried the lot back to the snug, where there was a small sofa for him to curl up on. It was almost like being back in the bookshop. Almost, but not quite. 

“Thank you, dearest,” said Aziraphale, taking the mug of cocoa and one slab of shortbread. 

“‘S’no trouble,” said Crowley. He set the plate down on Aziraphale’s desk and settled in on the sofa. “Mind if I sit for a bit?”

Aziraphale looked up from his book, his eyes going all soft and gooey. “Of course I don’t mind, you’re always welcome.”

After three pieces of shortbread, half a mug of cocoa, and roughly fifty pages of his book, Aziraphale moved from his chair to the sofa. Crowley shifted so he could lean against the angel and continued nibbling at the piece of shortbread he’d taken. They sat together like that, with only the sounds of Aziraphale’s page turning to break the silence, for hours. It was something they’d done since arriving at the cottage, when Crowley was still jumpy and having nightmares. It was much easier for him to sleep if Aziraphale was nearby, so he’d often dozed off on the sofa while the angel read. He no longer needed this to give him peace of mind, now he simply enjoyed it. 

Eventually Crowley went up to bed, and Aziraphale followed with his book tucked under his arm. Crowley divested himself of every piece of clothing except his knickers, and Aziraphale miracled himself into pyjamas. This was another one of the angel’s human quirks -- he didn’t sleep, but he absolutely loved pyjamas. Aziraphale settled back against the headboard, a pillow at his lower back, and Crowley pressed in close to him. He rubbed his cheek against the soft material of the angel’s pyjamas and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. 

“Goodnight, my love,” said Aziraphale, leaning down to kiss the top of Crowley’s head. 

“‘Night,” said Crowley, nearly asleep already. 

As Crowley drifted off, he was struck by the most wondrous thought -- tomorrow they’d get to do this all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are appreciated. <3


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